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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


GIFT  OF 

Estate  of 
Ernst  and  Eleanor 
van  L'dben  Sels 


AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 


i'uge  Sui 


PIAZZA    SAN    MARCO    FROM    THE    GRAND    CANAL 


AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN 
EUROPE 

BY 

CHARLES  FISH  HOWELL 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
HAROLD   FIELD   KELLOGG 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

1912 


COPYRIGHT,    1912,   BY   CHARLES   FISH   HOWELL 
ALL    RIGHTS   RESERVES 

Published  October  1Q12 


\DAH  STACK 
GIFT 


D93 


TO 
HELEN   EDITH   HOWELL 


Jt*uS 


Sweet  the  memory  is  to  me 
Of  a  land  beyond  the  sea. 

Longfellow. 


IN  EXPLANATION 

The  pages  that  follow  should  best  account  for  them- 
selves, of  course,  but  for  the  satisfaction  of  those  who 
very  properly  require  some  general  conception  of  a  pro- 
ject before  definitely  entering  upon  it,  the  author  begs 
to  say  that  he  has  here  sought  to  visualize  to  the  reader 
the  appearance  and  the  life  of  these  cities  at  the  hours 
indicated,  and  to  preserve,  as  well,  the  distinctive  atmos- 
phere of  each.  He  has  endeavored  to  catch  and  present 
faithful  impressions  of  the  streets,  their  kaleidoscopic 
animation,  and  the  activities  and  characteristics  of  the 
people;  to  touch  the  pen-pictures  with  a  light  overwash 
of  the  racial  and  national  peculiarities  that  distinguish 
each,  and  to  invest  them  with  what  insight,  sympathy, 
and  enthusiasm  he  is  capable  of.  It  is  "fitting  the  scene 
with  the  apposite  phrase,"  as  Mr.  Ho  wells  has  so  aptly 
described  the  process  and  as  he  himself  has  so  wonder- 
fully exemplified  it.  A  formidable  undertaking. ^^  In- 
deed, yes;  but  there  is  the  dictum  of  Mr.  Browning  that 
the  purpose  swells  the  account. 

These,  then,  are  impressionistic  sketches.  They  are  of 
the  moment  only.  It  has  been  sought,  most  of  all,  to  give 
them  just  that  character.  They  have  been  written  as 
reflecting  the  probable  observations  and  emotions  of 
visitors  of  normal  enthusiasm  during  these  hours  and  in 


X  IN   EXPLANATION 

these  environs.  Under  such  conditions,  it  is  well  to 
remember,  every  active  mind  has  its  sudden,  drifting 
excursions  afield;  something  in  the  visible,  present  sur- 
roundings whimsically  invokes  the  subtle  genii  of 
Memory  and  Imagination,  and  one  is  whisked  off  in  a 
breath,  and  without  rhyme  or  reason,  to  the  most  ul- 
timate and  alluring  Isles  of  Thought.  These  swift  and 
scarcely  accountable  flights  are  the  common  experience 
of  all  travelers,  and  the  author  has  felt  it  to  be  a  part  of 
his  task  to  take  proper  cognizance  of  them. 

Travel  is  generally  conceded  to  be  one  of  the  most 
informing  and  diverting  of  engagements,  and  to  gain  in 
both  particulars  in  proportion  to  the  favorableness  of 
the  conditions  under  which  it  is  prosecuted.  It  is,  there- 
fore, a  satisfaction  to  be  in  position  to  afford  readers 
advantages  scarcely  obtainable  elsewhere.  Discarding 
conventions  of  time  and  space,  the  author  undertakes 
to  give  them  twelve  consecutive  happy  hours  in  Europe, 
■ —  once  around  the  clock,  —  always  endeavoring  to 
secure  the  most  favorable  union  of  hour  and  place.  And 
though  there  may  be  dissent  from  his  judgment  con- 
cerning the  superiority  of  this  combination  or  that, 
there  can  hardly  be  two  opinions  as  to  the  perfection  of 
the  transportation  facilities.  The  latter  eliminate  time 
and  space,  and  convey  the  reader  from  city  to  city  and 
from  point  to  point,  with  no  discomfort  or  inconvenience 
whatever,  and  without  the  loss  of  so  much  as  a  tick  of 
the  watch. 


IN   EXPLANATION  xi 

With  foot  in  the  stirrup,  it  uiay  be  added  that  there 
has  been  an  earnest  desire  to  entertain  those  whom  cir- 
cumstances have  hitherto  kept  at  home,  as  also  to 
revive  to  memory  golden  recollections  for  travelers 
who  have  already  passed  along  these  pleasant  ways. 
What  is  here  offered  is  just  a  new  portfolio  of  sketches 
from  Nature;  the  touch  of  another  but  reverent  hand 
on  the  old  and  well-loved  scenes.  Surely  there  can  be  no 
better  reason  for  any  book  than  a  desire  to  share  with 
others  the  happiness  experienced  by 

The  Author. 


CONTENTS 


EDINBURGH  —  1  p.m.  to  2  p.m 1 

ANTWERP  —  2  P.M.  TO  3  p.m 33 

ROME  —  3  P.M.  TO  4  P.M 69 

PRAGUE  —  4  P.M.  TO  5  p.m 101 

SCHEVENINGEN  —  5  p.m.  to  6  p.m 135 

BERLIN— 6  p.m.  TO  7  p.m 153 

LONDON  —  7  P.M.  TO  8  p.m 183 

NAPLES  — 8  P.M.  TO  9  p.m 215 

HEIDELBERG— 9  P.M.  TO  10  P.M 249 

INTERLAKEN  — 10  p.m.  to  11  p.m 273 

VENICE  — 11   P.M.  TO  MIDNIGHT 299 

PARIS  —  MIDNIGHT  TO   1   A.M 329 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Piazza  San  Marco  from  the  Grand  Canal  (page  305)    Frontispiece 

Edinburgh  Castle 1 

Edinburgh,  Princes  Street 4 

The  Whole  Family 33 

Antwerp,  from  the  Scheldt 42 

In  the  Gardens  of  the  Vatican 69 

Rome,  The  Piazza  di  Spagna 90 

The  Pulverturm 101 

Prague,  The  Castle  from  the  Old  Bridge     .        .        .        .108 

Dutch  Girls  are  always  Knitting 135 

Scheveningen  Beach 140 

In  the  Sieges-All^e 153 

Berlin,  Unter  den  Linden 160 

Trafalgar  Square 183 

London,  St.  Paul's  from  under  Waterloo  Bridge         .        .      212 
Margherita 215 


xvi  ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Bat  of  Naples ♦     .        .        .      220 

A  Heidelberg  Student 249 

Heidelberg,  From  the  Castle  Terrace  ....      252 

Down  from  the  Mountain  273 

Interlaken,  On  the  Hotel  Lawn 282 

Piazza  San  Marco 299 

Venice,  Grand  Canal  from  the  Piazzetta      .        .        .        .      304 

A  Gargoyle  of  Notre  Dame 329 

Paris,  On  the  Boulevard 334 


EDINBURGH 


1    P.M.    TO    2    P.M. 


AROUND  THE  CLOCK 
IN  EUROPE 

EDINBURGH 

1    P.M.    TO   «    P.M. 

Up  there  on  the  gusty  heights  of  Edinburgh  no  one  ever 
inquires  the  time  at  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Pre- 
cisely at  the  second,  a  ball  flutters  to  the  top  of  the  Nel- 
son flagstaff  on  Calton  Hill  and  a  cannon  booms  from 
a  battery  at  Castle  Rock;  and  watches  are  then  set  by 
merchants  all  over  town,  by  shepherds  on  the  shaggy 
Pentland  Hills,  and  sailors  on  ships  in  the  lee  of  Leith. 
And  one  o'clock  is  the  very  best  time  Edinburgh  could 
have  fixed  upon  to  encourage  her  people  to  look  up  and 
about  and  behold  her  at  her  finest.  It  is  luncheon-hour, 
and  when  the  sun  is  kindly,  *' Auld  Reekie  "  is  just  about 
as  garish  and  stimulating  as  it  is  possible  for  a  town  of 
such  dignified  traditions  and  questionable  climate  ever 
to  become.  The  air  freshens  in  from  blustering  Leith, 
and  fair  Princes  Street  wears  its  most  beguiling  smiles. 
One  thrills  with  the  joy  of  being  alive  in  so  brave  and 
bonny  a  world,  with  the  bluebells  and  heather  of  Old 
Scotland  about  him  and  this  town  of  song  and  story 
at  his  feet.   He  gazes  at  the  cheerful  crowds  moving 


4        AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

leisurely  along  the  valley  gardens  elegant  with  statues 
and  flowered  lawns,  or  across  at  the  frowzy  heads  in 
rickety  garret  windows  away  up  among  the  palsied 
gables  of  ancient  High  Street,  and  he  knows  that  over 
there  is  the  Canongate  of  stern  tradition  and  the 
storied  St.  Giles'  and  black  Holyrood,  and  beyond  them 
he  sees  the  Salisbury  Crags,  a  gaunt  palisade  halfway  up 
to  lofty  Arthur's  Seat.  He  has  just  arrived,  perhaps, 
with  the  glow  on  his  face  of  all  he  has  read  and  heard 
of  this  famed  place,  and  the  bugles  are  singing  on  Castle 
Hill  and  the  Edinburgh  bells  are  ringing. 

There  is  little  opportunity  for  preliminary  impres- 
sions while  arriving.  The  train  darts  up  a  valley  be- 
fore you  have  finished  with  the  suburban  cottages  of 
the  laboring  men,  and  with  an  ultimate  shriek  of  relief 
abruptly  dives  into  its  cave,  as  it  were,  and  deposits 
you  unceremoniously  in  the  esplanaded  Waverley  Sta- 
tion, with  flowered  walks  above  and  a  market  just  at 
hand.  The  wise  traveler  gathers  up  his  luggage  and 
fares  eagerly  forth  to  Princes  Street,  as  a  matter  of 
course.  There,  on  the  way  to  his  hotel,  he  finds  a  good 
part  of  Edinburgh  idling  pleasantly  after  luncheon,  for 
Princes  Street  is  the  dear  delight  of  the  loiterer  be  he 
old  or  young,  Robin  or  Jean.  He  is  studied  as  he  passes 
through  the  crowds,  curiously,  smilingly,  critically, 
tolerantly.  His  clothing  may  excite  disapproval,  his 
baggage  amusement,  and  his  intentions  speculation. 
Curiosity  "takes  the  air"  at  noon.  Arrived  in  a  moment 


.W;.-J!BU*i**r»»vr 


i. 


----»^Li ' 


V-:V 


EDINBURGH,    PRINCES    STREET 


EDINBURGH  5 

at  a  Princes  Street  hotel  and  duly  registered,  he  is  handed 
a  curious  disk  of  white  cardboard  the  size  of  an  after- 
dinner  coffee-cup's  top,  upon  which  is  blazoned  the 
number  of  the  room  to  which  he  has  just  been  assigned. 
Preceded  by  a  chambermaid  gowned  in  black  and 
aproned  in  white  and  followed  by  a  porter  with  his  traps, 
he  advances  grandly  to  his  quarters,  according  to  the 
tag,  and  hurries  to  a  window  for  his  first  keen  impres- 
sion of  the  "Modern  Athens." 

Just  why  it  should  be  called  an  "Athens"  would 
scarcely  be  apparent  from  a  Princes  Street  hotel  window. 
The  literary  rights  to  the  title  might  be  conceded,  but 
the  stranger  will  need  to  view  the  town  from  some  neigh- 
boring height  to  appreciate  the  physical  similarity  be- 
tween the  two  cities  and  to  observe  the  suggestiveness 
of  the  Castle  and  the  reminder  of  the  Acropolis  in  the 
"  ruin  "-crowned  summit  of  Calton  Hill.  What  he  does 
see  from  his  window  is  sufficiently  inspiring.  At  his 
feet  stretches  Princes  Street  which  he  has  heard  called 
the  finest  avenue  in  Europe,  and  along  its  other  side 
terraces  of  vivid  turf,  set  with  shade  trees  and  statues 
and  flowered  walks,  drop  down  in  graceful  steps  to  the 
lawns  in  the  bottom  of  the  valley  that  was  once  the 
North  Loch's  basin  and  where  now,  to  Edinburgh's 
chagrin,  are  the  railroad  tracks.  Across  these  gardens 
vaults  a  boulevard  styled  "The  Mound,"  and  on  their 
farther  side  is  the  gray  old  Castle  on  its  precipitous 
crag  with  a  soft  sweep  of  green  braes  at  its  base.    On 


6        AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

the  Castle  side  of  the  valley  the  far-famed  High  Street 
turns  the  venerable  backs  of  its  tall,  tottering,  weather- 
blackened  rookeries  on  the  frivolity  of  Princes  Street, 
and  scornfully  gives  its  laundry  to  the  breeze  in  hun- 
dreds of  heaped  and  crooked  gable-windows.  Centu- 
ries before  any  of  us  were  born  those  fantastic  and 
whimsical  family  nests  were  lined  up  as  we  see  them 
to-day.  One  could  fancy  them  a  row  of  colossal,  pre- 
historic giraffes  with  their  tails  all  our  way,  nibbling 
imaginary  tree-tops  on  High  Street.  The  stranger  will 
lean  out  of  his  window  and  look  down  Princes  Street 
and  start  with  delight  to  see  that  "sublimest  monu- 
ment to  a  literary  genius,"  the  lace-like  Gothic  spire 
to  Scott,  where,  under  a  springing  canopy  of  arches 
and  aspiring  needles  studded  with  statues  of  the  im- 
mortal characters  he  created,  sits  the  great  Sir  Walter 
himself  in  snowy  Carrara,  with  his  favorite  hound 
at  his  feet.  And  one's  heart  warms  to  this  romantic 
Edinburgh  so  beloved  of  him  and  of  the  fiery  Burns, 
the  passionate  Chalmers,  the  gentle  Allan  Ramsay, 
and  Jeffrey  of  the  brilliant  *' far-darting"  criticisms. 
Here,  in  their  time,  mused  Robert  Fergusson  and 
David  Livingstone  and  Smollett  and  Hume  and  Gold- 
smith and  De  Quincey  and  "Kit  North"  and  Carlyle; 
and  but  yesterday  has  added  the  name  of  Stevenson,  not 
the  least  loved  of  them  all.  What  inspiration  this  re- 
gion must  have  kindled  to  have  given  to  Art  such  sons 
as  Gordon,  Drummond,  Nasmyth,  Wilkie,  Raeburn, 


EDINBURGH  7 

and  Faed !  Could  the  roster  of  old  Greyfriars  Burying- 
Ground  be  called,  one  would  marvel  at  the  number  of 
gneat  names  there  memorialized  that  are  familiar  and 
beloved  to  the  remotest,  out-of-the-way  corners  of  the 
earth.  And  so  the  new  arrival  closes  his  window  more 
slowly  than  he  raised  it  and  steals  reverently  down  into 
the  street  to  meet  this  Edinburgh  face  to  face. 

You  might  think,  to  hear  Americans  talk  at  home, 
that  every  other  Edinburgh  man  carries  a  dirk  or  a 
claymore  under  a  tartan  and  wears  a  ferocious  red  beard 
like  the  pictures  of  Rob  Roy;  that  people  go  about  in 
plaid  shawls  and  tam  o'shanters,  and  that  most  society 
functions  end  up  with  a  Highland  fling.  One  may  see 
at  wayside  railroad  stations,  as  in  our  own  country, 
wild,  hair-blown  lassies  with  flaming  cheeks  running  in 
from  the  hills  to  have  a  look  at  the  train ;  but  with  some 
such  mild  exception,  if  it  is  one,  the  Scots  on  their 
native  heath  are,  of  course,  precisely  what  we  are  used 
to  elsewhere.  Types  apart,  the  man  of  the  streets  of 
Edinburgh  looks  entirely  familiar  —  shrewd  and  com- 
bative, rugged  and  perhaps  hard,  slouchy  and  indifferent 
in  the  matter  of  dress,  hobnailed  and  be-capped.  There 
is  something  tremendously  genuine  and  wholesome 
about  him.  He  is  merry  and  brisk  and  lively,  often; 
but  you  would  not  call  him  ever  quite  gay  —  at  least 
with  that  sparkle  that  dances  in  the  eyes  you  look  into 
on  the  Paris  boulevards.  You  could  scarcely,  for  in- 
stance,  imagine   a   Scotchman    singing   a   barcarolle! 


8        AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Best  of  all  they  are  honest  and  sincere,  and  one  takes 
to  them  at  once.  Here  are  the  lassies  and  laddies  you 
have  long  sung  about,  fresh-faced  and  debonair.  Cheer- 
ful fearlessness  shines  out  of  their  frank  blue  eyes,  and 
they  look  to  dare  all  things  and  be  utterly  unafraid. 
The  square  foreheads  of  the  older  men,  the  austere 
cheek  bones  and  strong  chins,  unscroll  history  to  the 
observer  and  make  him  think  of  savage  broils  along  the 
border,  of  fierce  finish-fights  throughout  the  wild  High- 
lands, and  of  the  deathless  Grays  of  Waterloo.  You  may 
defeat  a  Scotchman,  but  he  will  never  admit  it,  and  if 
he  is  all-Scotch  he  will  not  even  know  it.  They  are 
brave,  witty,  and  devoted,  and  many  a  person  will  take 
issue  with  Swift  for  finding  their  conversation  *' hardly 
tolerable,"  and  with  Lamb  for  pronouncing  their  "tedi- 
ousness  provoking"  and  for  giving  them  up  in  despair 
of  ever  learning  to  like  them. 

The  new  arrival  plunges  into  Princes  Street,  accepts 
inspection  good-naturedly,  and  soon  feels  entirely  at 
home.  He  may  even  find  the  day  bright  and  cheerful, 
in  spite  of  apprehension  over  the  dictum  of  Stevenson 
that  this  climate  is  "the  vilest  under  heaven."  The 
street  is  quite  unusual — one  side  a  terraced  valley,  the 
other  a  splendid  line  of  shops,  clubs,  and  hotels,  with 
gay  awnings.  Paris  and  London  novelties  fill  the  win- 
dows. A  throng  of  vehicles  bustles  up  and  down  — 
motor-busses,  double-decked  trolley  cars,  taxicabs,  hired 
Victorias,  two-wheeled  carts,  brewery  wagons,  station 


EDINBURGH  9 

lorries,  tourists'  chars-a-bancs  with  drivers  in  scarlet 
liveries,  private  carriages  and  bicycles.  The  stream  of 
people  on  either  pavement  is  of  the  holiday  cheeri- 
ness  that  comes  with  the  luncheon  recess  from  office 
and  shop,  though  here  and  there  one  may  occasion- 
ally discover  some  "sour-looking  female  in  bomba- 
zine" that  recalls  R.  L.  S.'s  "Mrs.  McRankin"  and 
who  appears  as  ready  as  she  to  inquire  whether  we 
attend  to  our  "releegion."  The  restaurants  are  plying 
a  brisk  trade,  contenting  their  tarrying  guests,  speeding 
the  parting  and  hailing  the  coming.  Whole  coveys  of 
pretty  shop-girls  with  brilliant  cheeks,  wholesome  and 
vivacious,  come  chattering  and  laughing  out  of  tea-  and 
luncheon-rooms  and  flutter  back  to  work  with  frequent 
enthusiastic  stops  before  alluring  windows.  Workmen 
in  tweed  caps  and  clerks  in  straw  hats  pass  by,  to  or 
from  their  occupations,  and  always  with  lingering  looks 
toward  the  Princes  Street  Gardens,  so  that  one  can 
accurately  guess  whether  they  are  coming  from  or  go- 
ing to  office  by  applying  the  reliable  Shakespearean 
formula  — 

"Love  goes  to  Love  as  schoolboys  from  their  books, 
And  Love  from  Love  to  school  with  heavy  looks." 

The  air  is  rhythmic  with  the  up-and-down  slur  of  this 
speech  of  "aye"  and  "na."  Curious  faces  flash  past. 
Threadbare  lawyers  argue  pompously  as  they  saunter 
back  arm  in  arm  toward  Parliament  Close,  and  the 


10       AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

ruddy-cheeked  girls,  by  contrast,  seem  so  distracting 
that  a  foreigner  rages  at  the  sentiment  that  "kissing  is 
out  of  season  when  the  gorse  is  out  of  bloom."  Occasion- 
ally, even  at  so  early  an  hour,  there  is  evidence  of  the 
passion  for  drink.  *'  Willie  brew  'd  a  peck  o'  maut  *'  flashes 
to  mind,  and  one  fancies  the  unsteady  ones  are  trying 
to  hum,  "We  are  na  fou,  we're  no  that  fou,  but  just  a 
drappie  in  our  ee."  When  night  comes  on,  sober  men 
in  the  streets  have  reason  to  frown  censoriously;  and  if 
it  be  a  Saturday  night,  they  may  even  feel  lonesome. 

A  passing  regiment  is  a  welcome  interruption  and  a 
brave  spectacle.  It  is  always  hailed  with  shouts  of  joy. 
All  Edinburgh  turns  in  its  bed  Sunday  mornings  at 
nine  to  see  the  Black  Watch  come  out  from  the  Castle 
for  "church  parade"  at  St.  Giles's.  Nothing  stirs 
Princes  Street  on  any  week  day  like  a  military  display. 
It  is  a  thrilling  moment  to  a  stranger,  perhaps,  when  he 
has  his  first  glimpse  of  a  young  Tommy  Atkins,  and  he 
stops  stock-still  to  take  in  the  bright  scarlet,  tailless 
jacket,  the  tight  trousers,  the  "pill-box"  perilously 
cocked  over  an  ear,  and  the  inevitable  "swagger  cane" 
with  which  he  slaps  his  leg  as  he  braves  it  along.  But 
what  is  that  to  the  passing  of  a  company  of  Highlanders ! 
Along  they  come,  kilts  and  plaids,  sporrans  swinging, 
claymores  rattling,  and  jolly  Glengarry  bonnets  poised 
rakishly  to  the  falling  point.  Ten  pipers  are  droning 
and  three  drummers  are  pounding;  and  one  watches,  as 
they  pass,  for  the  holly  sprig,  or  what-not,  they  wear  in 


EDINBURGH  11 

their  bonnets  as  a  badge  of  the  clan.  The  best  show  is 
made  by  the  King's  Highlanders  from  up  Balmoral  way; 
and  splendid  they  are  in  royal  Stuart  tartan,  with  the 
oak  leaf  and  thistle  in  their  bonnets  and  each  man  carry- 
ing a  Lochaber  axe.  If  there  is  anything  more  inspiriting 
than  cheery  bagpipe  music  at  such  a  time,  no  one  to 
laugh  foolishly  at  it  and  every  one  to  love  it,  and  the  men 
stepping  proudly  and  the  crowd  applauding,  —  I,  for 
one,  do  not  know  it. 

Keenness  of  impressions,  as  we  all  know,  may  depend 
on  the  most  trivial  circumstances  of  time  and  place.  I 
recall,  for  example,  a  sharp  and  thrilling  musical  ex- 
perience in  Scotland,  with  the  instrument  nothing  more 
than  the  despised  and  humble  mouth-organ.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  mood,  perhaps  the  setting,  perhaps  the  un- 
expectedness of  it;  there  was  so  little  and  yet  so  much. 
At  all  events,  I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  sparkle  and  stir 
of  "The  British  Grenadiers"  as  it  ripped  the  sharp  night 
air  of  quiet  Melrose  to  the  approach  of  three  English 
soldiers,  one  with  the  mouth-organ  and  the  others 
whistling  in  time  as  they  marched  briskly  along.  I  shall 
always  remember  the  rhythmic  beat  of  their  feet  as  they 
swung  across  the  murky,  deserted  square,  the  loudness, 
the  thrill,  and  the  lilt  of  that  historic  melody,  and  the 
flicker  of  a  lamp  in  a  window  here  and  there  and  the 
pleasant  sting  of  the  keen  night  air. 

There  is  no  better  place  for  a  stranger  to  "get  his 
bearings"  in  Edinburgh  than  out  on  that  valley-spanning 


12      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

boulevard  they  call  "The  Mound.'*  He  then  has  the  Old 
Town  to  one  side  and  the  New  Town  to  the  other,  and 
on  opposite  corners,  as  if  to  maintain  the  balance,  the 
Castle  and  Calton  Hill.  He  also  takes  note  of  the  sev- 
eral bridges  that  clamp  the  town  together,  as  it  were; 
and  he  may  look  down  into  the  gardens  before  him  and 
watch  the  children  playing  as  far  as  the  promenade- 
covered  Waverley  Station,  or  he  may  turn  and  look  the 
other  way  and  see  quite  as  many  more  all  the  way  along 
the  pleasant  green  to  the  old  battle-scarred  West  Kirk 
of  St.  Cuthbert's  where  De  Quincey  lies  in  his  quiet 
grave.  Thus  he  will  find  himself  of  a  sunny  afternoon 
between  the  pleasant  horns  of  a  most  agreeable  dilemma. 
He  must  choose  whether  to  spend  his  first  hour  in  the 
New  Town  or  the  Old.  If  he  remembers  what  Ruskin 
said  he  will  fly  from  the  New;  but  then  he  may  go  there, 
after  all,  if  he  recalls  the  opinion  of  the  old  skipper  cited 
by  Stevenson,  whose  most  radiant  conception  of  Para- 
dise was  "the  New  Town  of  Edinburgh,  with  the  wind 
the  matter  of  a  point  free."  He  must  decide  whether 
his  present  inclination  is  for  latter-day  city  features,  like 
conventional  streets  lined  with  substantial  gray  stone 
buildings  looking  all  very  much  alike,  for  the  fashion- 
ables of  Charlotte  Square  and  Moray  Place  and  the 
bankers  and  brokers  of  St.  Andrew  Square,  or  the  his- 
toric ground  of  crowded  old  High  Street  and  the  Castle 
and  Holyrood.  He  would  find  in  the  New  Town  some 
old  places,  too,  for  it  is  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  old, 


EDINBURGH  13 

and  there  are  the  literary  associations  of  the  last  cent- 
ury and  the  house  on  Castle  Street  where  Scott  lived 
more  than  a  quarter-century  —  "poor  No.  39,"  as  he 
called  it  in  his  Journal  —  and  wrote  the  early  Waverley 
Novels,  and  rejoiced  along  with  his  mystified  friends  in 
the  tremendous  success  of  *'The  Great  Unknown."  He 
would  find  it  a  rapidly  modernizing  city;  no  longer  may 
the  children  salute  the  lamplighter  on  his  nightly  rounds 
with  "Leerie,  Leerie,  licht  the  lamps!"  But  he  would 
find  the  most  interesting  things  there  the  oldest  things, 
and  they  all  in  the  Antiquarian  Museum  —  and  what  a 
show!  John  Knox's  pulpit,  the  banners  of  the  Coven- 
anters, the  "thumbikins"  that  "aided"  confession  and 
the  guillotine  "Maiden"  that  rewarded  it,  the  pistols 
Robert  Burns  used  as  an  exciseman,  and  the  sea-chest 
and  cocoanut  cup  of  Alexander  Selkirk,  the  real  Robinson 
Crusoe;  and  there,  too,  is  Bonnie  Prince  Charlie's  blue 
ribbon  of  the  Garter  and  the  ring  Flora  Macdonald  gave 
him  when  they  parted.  If  historic  paraphernalia  is  al- 
luring, however,  the  scenes  of  its  associations  are  much 
more  so;  and  our  friend  would  doubtless  hesitate  no 
longer,  but  turn  to  the  Old  Town  and  trudge  up  the 
steep  way  to  the  Castle. 

"You  tak'  the  high  road 
And  I  '11  tak'  the  low  road. 
And  I'll  get  to  Scotland  afore  ye'*;  — 

and  if  the  song  had  kept  to  geography  it  would  probably 
have  added,  "And  we'll  meet  at  the  bonny  Castle  o' 


14       AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Auld  Reekie."  Such,  at  least,  has  been  a  Scotch  custom 
for  thirteen  hundred  years  ;  and  with  every  reason. 
Through  the  long  and  cruel  centuries  it  has  gathered  to 
its  flinty  gray  bosom  memories  of  every  possible  phase 
of  national  mutation,  desperate  or  glorious,  gloomy  or 
gay.  One  approaches  it  with  awe.  So  long  has  it  gripped 
the  summit  of  that  impregnable  rock,  half  a  thousand 
feet  sheer  on  three  of  its  sides,  that  it  has  blended  into 
the  life  and  color  of  its  foundations,  like  a  huge  chame- 
leon, until  one  could  scarcely  say  where  rock  leaves  off 
and  castle  begins.  A  stern  and  pitiless  object,  tolerating 
only  here  and  there  a  grassy  crevice  at  its  base,  and  a 
clinging  tree  or  two.  In  the  great  "historic  mile"  of 
High  Street,  lifting  gradually  from  Holyrood  to  this 
rugged  elevation,  one  feels  the  illusion  of  an  enormous 
scornful  finger  extended  dramatically  westward  toward 
the  traditional  rival,  Glasgow.  There  is  no  need  to  see 
Highland  regiments  drilling  on  its  broad  esplanade,  or 
to  enter  its  sally-port  or  penetrate  the  dungeons  in  its 
rocky  depths  to  have  confidence  that  the  royal  regalia  of 
"The  Honours  of  Scotland"  are  safe  enough  here,  on  the 
red  cushions  in  their  iron  cage.  One  enters,  and  there 
settles  upon  him  a  feeling  of  sharing  in  every  grim  tra- 
dition since  the  doughty  days  "when  gude  King  Robert 
rang."   It  is  not  a  visit;  it  is  an  initiation. 

Quite  worthy  of  this  savage  stronghold  is  the  inspir- 
ing outlook  from  its  parapets  over  hills  and  rivers  and 
storied  glens.     One  turns    impatiently  from  "Mons 


EDINBURGH  15 

Meg,"  which  may  have  been  a  big  gun  in  some  past 
day  of  little  ones,  to  gaze  afar  over  the  carse  of  Stirling 
and  the  trailing  silver  links  of  the  Forth  to  where  the 
snow  shines  in  the  clefts  of  Ben  Ledi,  or  out  over  the 
Pentland  Hills  where  the  "Sweet  Singers"  awaited  the 
Judgment.  The  sportsman  will  think  of  the  grouse- 
shooting  at  Loch  Earn;  the  sentimentalist  will  re- 
flect that  when  night  settles  over  Aberdeenshire  the 
pipers  will  strike  up .  their  strathspeys  and  there  will  be 
Scotch  reels  by  torchlight.  Scotland  seems  unrolled  at 
your  feet  and  Scottish  songs  rush  to  mind  until  you 
fairly  bound  the  region  in  verse  and  story :  To  the  north 
and  northwest,  "Bonnie  Dundee,"  the  glens  of  "Clan 
Alpine's  warriors  true,"  Bannockburn  and  "  Scots 
wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled,"  and  "The  Banks  of  Allan 
Water";  to  the  north  and  east,  the  Firth  of  Forth 
where  the  fishwives'  "  puir  fellows  darkle  as  they  face  the 
billows";  to  the  west  and  southwest,  "The  banks  and 
braes  o'  bonnie  Doon,"  "Tam  o'Shanter's  "  land, "  Sweet 
Afton"  and  "Bonnie  Loch  Leven"  whence  "the  Camp- 
bells are  comin'";  and  to  the  south,  "The  braes  of  Yar- 
row," "  Norham's  castled  steep, Tweed's  fair  river,  broad 
and  deep,  and  Cheviot's  mountains  lone,"  and,  most 
sung  of  all,  "The  Border":  — 

"England  shall,  many  a  day,  tell  of  the  bloody  fray 
When  the  blue  bonnets  came  over  the  border." 

The  afternoon  sun  rests  brightly  on  the  pretty  glen 


16      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

in  the  foreground  where  lie  the  dismal,  bat-flown  ruins 
of  Rosslyn  Castle,  loopholed  for  archers  and  shadowed 
in  ancient  yews  that  have  overhung  the  Esk  for  a 
thousand  years,  and  on  the  delicate  chapel  of  stone- 
lace  where  the  barons  of  Rosslyn  await  the  Judgment 
in  full  armor  with  finger-tips  joined  in  prayer.  And 
there,  too,  are  the  cool,  dark  thickets  of  Hawthornden, 
recalling  the  ever-popular 

*'  Gang  down  the  burn,  Davy  Love, 
And  I  will  follow  thee." 

One  cannot  forbear  a  smile  as  he  surveys  the  noble 
bridge  that  spans  the  Forth  and  recalls  the  insistent 
pride  of  Edinburgh  in  the  same.  Here  is  an  achieve- 
ment over  which  all  visitors  are  expected  to  exclaim  in 
amazement  —  and  engineers,  I  presume,  invariably 
do.  On  this  point  your  Edinburgh  man  is  immovable. 
He  scorns  to  elaborate  and  he  will  not  descend  to  eu- 
logy. He  merely  indicates  it  with  a  reverent  inclination 
of  the  head,  and  turns  and  looks  you  in  the  eye;  you  are 
supposed  to  do  the  rest.  Personally,  while  I  give  the 
great  structure  its  dues,  which  are  many,  I  like  what 
flows  under  it  more. 

And  there  is  one  thing  about  the  Forth  that  Edinburgh 
people  never  forget,  nor  do  the  visitors  who  find  it  out : 
"Caller  herrin'!"  It  must  have  taxed  the  resources  of 
even  such  a  genius  as  Lady  Nairne,  whose  home  one 
may  see  if  he  looks  beyond  Holyrood  to  the  villas  of 


EDINBURGH  17 

Duddingston,  to  have  written  two  such  dissimilar  songs 
as  the  heart -melting  "Land  o'  the  Leal"  and  the  cheery 
"Caller  Herrin'."  There's  the  king  of  all  marketing 
songs.  It  really  compels  one  to  think  with  despair  of 
what  a  dreary  mockery  life  would  be  were  this,  of  all 
harvests,  to  fail.  For  love  of  that  song  I  could  defend 
the  Forth  herring  against  all  competitors  whatsoever. 
Loch  Fyne  herring?  Fair  fish,  yes;  but  really,  now,  you 
would  hardly  say  they  have  that  racy  flavor  we  get  in 
the  Forth  article.  Caller  salmon .f^  Oh,  pshaw,  you  are 
from  Glasgow;  you  have  been  swearing  by  caller  salmon 
for  five  hundred  years;  have  it  on  your  coat  of  arms; 
used  to  draw  it  on  legal  papers  as  other  people  do  seals; 
—  but,  honestly,  have  you  ever  seen  a  salmon  in  the 
Clyde,  anywhere  near  Glasgow,  in  all  your  life?  And 
if  you  did,  would  you  eat  it?  Certainly  not!  So  "give 
over,"  as  they  say  in  England.  Certainly  there  never 
was  such  pathos  and  unction  devoted  to  just  such  a 
subject.  And  the  music,  too !  How  it  compels  you  with 
its  appealing  monotones  and  rebukes  you  with  the 
brave  huckster  cries  on  high  F !  So  when  you  are  pass- 
ing near  Waverley  Market  and  encounter  one  of  the 
picturesque  Scandinavian  fishwives,  who  has  trudged 
in  with  her  "woven  willow"  from  her  little  stone  house 
at  Newhaven  with  the  patched  roof  and  quaint  fore- 
stairs,  unless  you  are  willing  to  buy  a  herring  then  and 
there  and  carry  it  around  in  your  pocket,  run  for  your 
life  before  she  starts  singing;  — 


18      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

"When  ye  were  sleeping  on  your  pillows, 
Dreamt  ye  aught  o'  our  puir  fellows. 
Darkling  as  they  face  the  billows, 
A'  to  fill  our  woven  willows! 

"Wha'll  buy  caller  herrin*? 
They're  bonnie  fish  and  halesome  farin'; 
Buy  my  caller  herrin'. 
New  drawn  frae  the  Forth." 

To  stroll  down  High  Street  is  to  unscroll  Scottish 
history  and  survey  Edinburgh  of  to-day  at  one  and 
the  same  time.  *'Hie-gait,"  as  the  old  fellows  still  occa- 
sionally call  it,  is  the  "historic  mile"  par  excellence  of 
Scotland.  In  its  independent  fashion  it  assumes  new 
names  as  it  meanders  along,  first  Castle  Hill,  then  Lawn- 
market,  then  High  Street,  and  finally  Canongate. 
Even  the  afternoon  sun  ventures  guardedly  among  the 
nest  of  tall,  gaunt  lands  that  scowl  at  each  other  across 
its  war-worn  way.  Bleak  and  glum  to  the  peaked  and 
gabled  roofs,  eight  and  ten  stories  above  the  sidewalk, 
they  have  resisted  dry  rot  by  a  miracle  of  mortar  and 
still  hang  together,  doubtless  to  their  own  amazement, 
huddling  a  perfect  enmeshment  of  tiny  homes  like  some 
ingenious  nest  of  boxes.  It  would  be  hard  to  imagine 
more  drear  and  rickety  domiciles  or  any  more  nervously 
overshadowed  with  an  impending  doom  of  dissolution. 
One  looks  anxiously  about  to  see  some  venerable  vete- 
ran give  it  up  with  a  dismal,  weary  groan  and  collapse 
in  a  vast  huddle  of  domestic  wreckage.   Fancy  living 


EDINBURGH  19 

where  you  have  to  scale  breakneck  stairs  to  a  dizzy 
height  and  then  reach  your  remote  eyrie  by  a  trembling 
gangway  over  an  air  well !  The  closes  or  wynds  that  are 
engulfed  among  these  flat -chested  ancients  are  equally 
surprising.  One  passes  in  from  the  street  through  a  dirty 
entrance  with  a  worn  stone  sill  and  a  rudely  carven 
doorhead  inscribed  with  Scriptural  and  moral  injunc- 
tions, and  finds  himself  in  an  inner  court  fronted  by  dirty 
doors  and  palsied  windows  full  of  frowzy  women,  a 
cobbled  pavement  littered  with  refuse  and  a  patch  of 
sky  half-hidden  by  fragments  of  laundry.  And,  mind 
you,  these  retreats  are  not  without  pride  of  tradition; 
many  of  them  have  entertained  riches  and  royalty  — - 
but  that  was  not  last  week.  Lady  Jane  Grey  was  once 
hidden  in  famous  White  Horse  Close,  which  must  have 
fallen  further  than  Lucifer  to  reach  its  present  condi- 
tion. Douglas  Tavern  was  in  one  of  them,  where  Burns 
and  his  brethren  of  the  "Crochallan  Club"  were  wont 
to  revel  with"Rattlin',  roarin'  Willie,  and  amang  guid 
companie."  Legends,  of  course,  abound.  There  was  the 
case  of  the  two  stubborn  sisters  who  quarreled  one  night 
and  never  spoke  to  each  other  again,  though  they  lived 
the  remainder  of  their  lives  together  in  the  selfsame  room. 
There 's  Scotch  persistence !  Deacon  Brodie  was  another 
instance,  the  "Raffles"  of  his  time.  He  it  was  who  used 
to  ply  his  nefarious  trade  by  night  on  the  friends  who 
knew  him  by  day  as  a  highly  respectable  cabinet- 
worker;  and  if  you  look  furtively  aloft  at  some  dusty, 


20      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

closed  shutter  you  can  fancy  the  dark  lantern  glowing 
and  the  file  rasping  and  the  black  mask  drawn  to  his 
chin.  Happily,  they  hanged  him  eventually;  and,  sing- 
ularly enough,  on  the  very  gallows  for  which  he  had 
himself  invented  a  very  superior  drop. 

A  close,  therefore,  is  so  cheerless  a  spot  that  you  could 
not  well  be  worse  off  if  you  were  to  dive  down  the  steep, 
wet  steps  of  a  neighboring  slit  of  an  alley  and  come  out 
on  the  old  Grassmarket  of  sinister  renown  where  they 
hanged  the  Covenanters  of  the  Moss  Hags.  As  you 
gaze  about  on  this  ill-omened  slum,  once  the  home  of 
many  a  prosperous  and  respected  "free  burgess,'*  but 
now  given  over  to  drovers  and  visiting  farmers,  and 
peer  suspiciously  up  the  adjoining  West  Port  where 
Burke  and  Hare  conducted  their  murders  to  get  bodies 
for  the  surgeons,  you  are  very  apt  to  beat  a  hurried  re- 
treat and  cry  out  with  Claverhouse,  "  Come,  open  the 
West  Port  and  let  me  gang  free!" 

After  one  or  two  such  explorations  a  stranger  is  con- 
tent to  pursue  his  investigation  in  the  broad  light  of 
High  Street.  It  seems  delightful  then  to  watch  the  bare- 
footed boys  in  the  street  and  the  little  girls  in  aprons  and 
"pigtails."  And  happily  he  may  come  across  a  shaggy 
steely-eyed  old  Highlander  growling  to  a  comrade  in 
the  guttural  Gaelic,  or  perhaps  a  soldier  in  kilts  and 
sporan.  At  this  hour  he  will  certainly  see  around  Par- 
liament Square  groups  of  advocates  and  solicitors  and 
"writers  to  the  Signet,"  and,  it  may  be,  some  judge  of 


EDINBURGH  21 

the  "Inner  House"  or  "Outer  House,**  and  possibly 
the  Lord  President  himself.  Otherwise  he  can  take  note 
of  the  uninviting  shop-windows  and  the  piles  of  mer- 
chandise on  the  sidewalks,  and  find  entertainment  in 
such  unfamiliar  signs  as  " provisioners,"  "spirit  mer- 
chants," "bootmakers,"  "hairdressers,"  etc.,  with 
prices  set  forth  in  shillings  and  pence,  or  rejoice  in  a 
hostelry  with  so  unusual  a  name  as  "The  Black  Bull 
Lodgings  for  Travellers  and  Working  Men.*' 

There  are  pleasant  surprises.  For  instance,  you  find  in 
the  cobbled  pavement  the  outline  of  a  heart  —  and 
you  do  not  have  to  be  told  that  you  are  standing  on  the 
site  of  the  terrible  old  Tolbooth  prison,  at  the  Heart  of 
Midlothian.  And  what  rushes  to  mind  and  displaces  all 
other  associations  if  not  the  fine  story  Sir  Walter  gave 
us  under  that  name!  Here,  then,  the  Porteous  mob 
swarmed  and  raged  in  its  struggle  to  burn  this  savage 
Bastile,  and  here  they  tried  and  condemned  poor  Effie 
Deans  and  locked  her  up  while  the  faithful  Jeanie 
turned  heaven  and  earth  to  save  her,  and  the  heart  of 
old  David  broke.  "The  Heart  of  Midlothian!"  Why, 
it  is  like  being  a  boy  all  over  again ! 

Encouraged  by  this  discovery,  like  a  man  who  has 
just  found  a  gold-piece,  you  keep  a  sharp  lookout  on  the 
pavements,  and  presently  comes  a  second  reward  in 
the  shape  of  a  brass  tablet  in  the  ground  marking  the  last 
resting-place  of  stern  John  Knox.  "There!"  say  you; 
"Dr.  Johnson  said  he  ought  to  be  buried  in  the  public 


22      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

road,  and  sure  enough,  he  is!"  What  a  man!  He  dared 
all  things  and  feared  nothing.  How  many  a  long  dis- 
course did  Queen  Mary  herself  supply  him  a  topic  for, 
and  how  often  did  he  assail  even  her  with  personal  re- 
bukes and  virulent  public  tirades !  Thanks  to  the  Free 
Church,  his  dwelling  stands  intact,  farther  down  the 
street  at  the  site  of  the  Netherbow;  and  a  fine  specimen 
it  is  of  sixteenth-century  domestic  Scotch  architecture, 
with  low  ceilings  and  stairways  scarce  two  feet  wide  — 
but,  like  its  former  austere  tenant,  narrow,  cornery, 
and  unpleasant.  Implacable,  unbending  old  John  Knox ! 
There  is  nothing  in  Browning  more  shuddering  in  imag- 
inative flight  than  the  quatrain :  — 

"As  if  you  had  carried  sour  John  Knox 
To  the  play-house  at  Paris,  Vienna,  or  Munich, 
Fastened  him  into  a  front-row  box, 
And  danced  ofif  the  ballet  with  trousers  and  tunic." 

One  makes  a  long  stop  before  the  far-famed  church 
of  St.  Giles,  half  a  thousand  years  old  and  the  battle- 
ground of  warring  creeds.  Its  crown-shaped  tower  top 
is  one  of  the  familiar  landmarks  of  Edinburgh.  Within 
you  may  study  to  heart's  content  the  grim  barrel  vault- 
ing and  massive  Norman  piers  and  the  tattered  Scot- 
tish flags  in  the  nave,  but  there  is  scope  for  many  an 
agreeable  thought  outside  if  one  conjures  up  the  little 
luckenbooth  shops  that  once  clustered  between  its 
buttresses,  and  imagines  Allan  Ramsay  in  his  funny 
nightcap  selling  wigs,  or  "Jingling  Geordie"  Heriot,  of 


EDINBURGH  23 

"The Fortunes  of  Nigel,"  gossiping  with  his  friend  King 
James  VI  over  his  jewelry  counter.  Nor  would  you  for- 
get Jenny  Geddes  and  how  she  seized  her  stool  in  dis- 
gust when  the  Dean  undertook  to  introduce  the  ritual, 
and  let  it  fly  at  the  good  man's  head  with  the  sizzling 
invective,  "Deil  colic  the  wame  o'  ye!  Would  ye  say 
mass  i'  my  lug!" 

Old  Tron  Kirk,  farther  on,  is  still  an  active  feature  of 
Edinburgh  life,  and  particularly  on  New  Year's  Eve  when 
the  crowds  rally  here  as  the  old  year  dies.  Beyond  it 
the  Canongate  extends  itself  in  a  rambling,  happy-go- 
lucky  fashion,  lined  with  curious  timber-fronted  houses 
with  "turnpike"  stairs.  It  is  like  sitting  down  to 
"Humphrey  Clinker"  once  more;  or  better  still,  per- 
haps, to  the  poems  of  Fergusson;  and  we  smile  at 
thoughts  of  the  scowling,  early-risen  housewives  of  other 
days  who  would 

"Wi'  glowering  eye 
Their  neighbours'  sma'est  faults  descry!" 

and  fancy  how  the  convivial  revelers  would  foregather 

by  night  and 

"sit  fu'  snug, 
Owre  oysters  and  a  dram  o'  gin, 
Or  haddock  lug." 

But  lingering  along  the  Canongate  is  a  negligible 
pleasure.  There  is  nothing  in  the  whole  architectural 
world  more  jailish  and  pitiless  than  the  gaunt  Tol- 
booth  and  all  its  grim  neighbors.    It  is  as  if  the  concep- 


24      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

tion  of  anything  suggestive  of  beauty  or  ornamentation 
had  been  harshly  repressed,  and  ugliness  and  the  most 
naked  utility  sternly  insisted  upon.  One  may,  how- 
ever, if  he  is  interestedjn  slums,  pause  a  moment  to 
look  down  through  the  railings  of  the  South  Bridge  on 
the  screaming  peddlers  and  flaunting  shame  of  bedrag- 
gled Cowgate,  and  behold  a  district  which  stands  to 
Edinburgh  in  the  relative  position  of  Rivington  Street 
to  New  York,  or  Petticoat  Lane  to  London,  or  Mont- 
martre  to  Paris. 

The  end  of  the  Canongate,  a  few  steps  farther  on, 
debouches  unexpectedly,  and  with  a  sudden  unpre- 
paredness  for  the  stranger,  on  the  great  open  square 
before  Holyrood.  There  it  stands,  black  and  dismal; 
more  like  a  prison  than  a  palace!  The  Abbey  ruins,  in 
the  rear,  supply  all  the  atmosphere  of  romance  that  the 
eye  will  get  here.  But  the  eye  is  better  left  as  a  second- 
ary aid  in  comprehending  Holyrood;  history  and  im- 
agination do  the  work.  Cowering  sorrowfully  in  its 
gloomy  hollow,  it  has  the  look  of  a  moody,  forsaken 
thing  brooding  over  a  neglectful  world.  Its  memories 
are  of  the  dead.  Its  sole  companionship  is  in  the 
mosses  and  grassy  aisles  of  the  crumbling  Abbey  chapel, 
where  lie  the  bones  of  Scottish  royalty  that  ruled  and 
reveled  here  its  allotted  time  and  left  scarce  a  memory 
behind.  Jt  was  here  they  slew  Rizzio  as  he  dined  with 
Queen  Mary;  and  perhaps  that  is  romance  enough. 

The  fumes  and  cobwebs  of  murky  tradition  dissipate 


EDINBURGH  25 

in  the  keen,  vigorous  air  of  Gallon  Hill.  Breezes  from 
over  the  level  shore-sands  of  Leith  taste  sharp  of  salt 
and  excite  bracing  thoughts  of  the  sea.  Like  a  map, 
the  whole  environ  of  Edinburgh  lies  exposed  from  the 
Pentlands  to  the  Firth.  There  is  the  steepled  city,  rising 
over  its  ridges  and  dropping  down  its  valleys  like  bil- 
lows of  a  troubled  ocean,  and  there,  too,  is  the  enveloping 
sweep  of  suburbs  dotted  with  villas  or  cross-thatched 
with  streets  of  workingmen's  cottages,  and  farther  still 
the  Meadows  and  their  archery  grounds,  "the  furzy 
hills  'of  Braid"  and  their  golf  links,  Blackford  Hill 
whence  "  Marmion  "  and  his  bard  looked  down  on  "  mine 
own  romantic  town,"  and,  on  the  southern  horizon, 
the  heathery  Pentlands,  low  and  shaggy,  with  the  kine 
that  graze  over  them  low  and  shaggy  too.  To  the  north- 
ward, away  beyond  the  cricket  greens  of  Inverleith 
Park,  the  blue  Firth  sparkles  in  the  offing,  dotted  with 
fleet  steamers  and  the  white  spread  sails  of  stately  ships 
laying  courses  for  the  Baltic.  In  the  distance,  over 
Leith,  looms  the  tall  lighthouse  of  the  Inchcape  Rock 
that  Southey  made  famous  with  a  ballad.  Beyond  the 
west  end  of  the  city  a  wavj''  blue  line  marks  the  course 
seaward  of  the  bustling  little  Water  of  Leith,  where 
"David  Balfour"  kept  tryst  with  "Alan  Breck,"  and 
many  a  sturdy  little  "brig"  leaps  across  it  as  it  hurries 
along,  "brimmed,"  wrote  Stevenson,  "like  a  cup  with 
sunshine  and  the  song  of  birds.".  Still  farther  to  the 
westward,  where  the  old  Queens  Ferry  Goach  Road 


26       AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

appears  as  a  faint  white  tracing,  within  many  "a  mile 
of  Edinborough  Town,"  thin  vapors  of  smoke  rise  from 
the  chimneys  of  white  cottages  on  peasant  greens  by 
brooksides;  and  one  knows  that  the  rowans  there  are 
white  with  bloom  and  the  meadows  flecked  with 
daisies,  and  that  bees  are  droning  in  the  foxglove  and 
blackbirds  singing  in  the  hawthorn. 

Calton  Hill  itself  scarcely  improves  on  acquaintance, 
but  loses  rather.  Its  meagre  scattering  of  monuments 
would  barely  excite  a  passing  interest  were  it  not  for 
their  conspicuous  location  and  that  suggestion  of  the 
Athenian  Acropolis.  A  paltry  array  —  a  tall,  ugly  col- 
umn to  Nelson,  a  choragic  monument  like  the  one  to 
Burns  on  a  hillside  near  Holyrood,  an  old  observatory 
with  a  brown  tower  and  a  new  one  with  a  colonnaded 
portico  and  a  dome,  and,  most  mentioned  of  all,  the 
so-called  "ruin"  of  the  proposed  national  monument  to 
the  Scotch  dead  of  Waterloo  and  the  Peninsula,  which 
got  no  farther  than  a  row  of  columns  and  an  entabla- 
ture when  funds  failed  and  work  stopped.  Many  a 
bitter  shaft  of  scorn  and  mockery  has  this  ill-starred 
undertaking  pointed  for  the  disparagers  of  Scotland. 
However,  in  its  present  condition  it  has  done  more  than 
any  other  agency  to  stimulate  the  pleasant  illusion  of 
the  "Modern  Athens."  The  hill  itself  is  a  favorite  re- 
sort, lofty,  and  with  a  broad,  rounded  top.  The  eastern 
slopes  are  terraced  and  set  with  gardens,  and  the  western 
and  northern  sides  are  steep  verdant  braes.   One  yields 


EDINBURGH  27 

the  palm  for  reckless  daring  to  Bothwell ;  not  every  one 
would  care  to  speed  a  horse  down  such  a  course  even 
to  win  attention  from  eyes  so  bright  and  important  as 
Queen  Mary's. 

It  was  on  Calton  Hill  I  had  my  first  experience  of  the 
old  school  of  Scotchmen,  in  the  person  of  a  dry  and  with- 
ered chip  of  Auld  Reekie,  combative,  peppery,  brusque 
and  sententious,  and  abounding  in  that  peculiar  ad- 
mixture of  braggadocio  and  repression  so  characteristic 
of  the  class.  He  had  evidently  been  nurtured  from  in- 
fancy on  Allan  Ramsay's  collection  of  Scotch  proverbs, 
for  he  quoted  them  continually,  giving  the  poet  credit 
for  their  origin.  He  was  sitting  in  the  shade  of  Nel- 
son's column  in  shirt  sleeves  and  cap,  absorbed  to  all 
appearances  in  a  copy  of  "The  Scotsman,"  though  I 
suspect  he  had  been  regarding  me  for  some  while  with 
quite  as  much  curiosity  as  I  now  did  him.  He  was  a 
grim,  self-contained  old  party,  as  dignified  as  the  Lord 
Provost  himself,  with  gray,  shaggy  eyebrows  and  a  thin, 
wry  mouth  that  gripped  a  cutty  pipe;  and  he  looked  so 
much  a  part  of  the  surroundings,  so  settled  and  weather- 
beaten,  that  one  might  almost  have  passed  him  over 
for  some  memorial  carving  or,  at  least,  an  "animated 
bust."  Him  I  beheld  with  vast  inner  delight  and  gin- 
gerly approached,  giving  "Good  day"  with  all  the  cor- 
diality in  the  world.  The  reward  was  a  curt  nod  and  a 
keen  scrutiny  from  a  pair  of  hard  and  twinkling  blue 
eyes  that  had  an  appearance  under  the  grizzled  brows 


28      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

of  stars  in  a  frosty  sky.  I  observed  upon  the  fineness  of 
the  day;  he  opined  "There  had  been  waur,  no  doot." 
I  noted  what  a  capital  spot  it  was  for  a  quiet  smoke;  he 
allowed  I  might  "gang  far  an'  find  nane  better."  Here 
I  made  proffer  of  a  cigar  and,  presumably,  with  accept- 
able humility,  for  he  took  it  with  an  "Ah,  weel,  I  dinna 
mind,"  of  gloomy  resignation  —  and  so  we  got  things 
going. 

The  conversation  that  followed  I  venture  to  give  in 
some  detail  as  illustrating,  possibly,  the  peculiarities 
of  a  type  to  be  encountered  on  every  Edinburgh  street 
corner  —  whimsical,  conservative,  witty,  cautious  in 
opinion,  and  surcharged  with  local  pride. 

"A  man  can  take  life  pleasantly  here,"  said  I,  when 
we  had  lighted  up. 

"Aye,  aye,"  said  he;  "even  a  hard-workin'  one  like 
mysel',  as  Gude  kens.  But  a  bit  smoke  frae  ane  an' 
twa  o'  the  day  hurts  naebody,  I'm  thinkin';  an'  auld 
Allan  Ramsay  was  richt  eneuch,  'Light  burdens  break 
nae  banes.'" 

"  You  will  never  be  leaving  Edinburgh,  I'll  warrant." 

"Na,  na.  Ye '11  have  heard  tell  the  sayin',  *Remove 
an  auld  tree  an'  it  will  wither.'" 

"There's  more  money  to  be  made  elsewhere,  perhaps." 

"I'm  no  so  sure  o'  that.  Forbye,  'Little  gear  the 
less  care.'" 

"  One  would  n't  find  a  handsomer  city  than  this,  at  all 
events." 


EDINBURGH  29 

"Aweel,  aweel,  a'body  kens  that.  Ye*ll  no  so  vera 
frequently  see  the  bate  o'  it,  I  'm  thinkin*.  Them  that 
should  ken  the  best  say  sae." 

"How  many  people  are  there  here,  sir?  " 
"Mare  than  three  hunner  an'fifty  thoosan',I*m  telt." 
"No  more?   It  is  small  for  its  fame.    Why,  Glasgow 
must  be  three  times  as  large,"  I  ventured,  resolved  to 
stir  him  up  a  little. 

"Glesgie,  is  it!  Think  shame  o'  yersel',  mon,  to  say 
the  same!  A  grippie  carlin,  Glesgie!  Waur  than  the 
auld  wife  o*  the  say  in',  *  She '11  keep  her  ain  side  o'  the 
hoose,  and  gang  up  an'  doon  in  yours.'  Ye  canna 
nay-say  me  there.   Gae  wa'  wi'  ye!" 

"  But  you  must  admit  it  is  a  great  port.  The  receipts 
are  enormous,  I'm  told." 

"Aye,  an'  it's  muckle  ye '11  be  telt  ye '11  never  read  in 
the  Guid  Buik!  Port,  are  ye  sayin'?  Hae  ye  na  thought 
o'  Leith?  Or  the  bonny  sands  an'  gardens  o'  Porto- 
bello?  Or  Granton,  forbye,  wi'  the  three  braw  piers  o' 
the  Duke  o'  Buccleuch?  Ye '11  no  be  kennin'  they're 
a'  a  part  o'  Ed'nboro,  maybe." 

"But  how  about  the  shipbuilding  on  the  Clyde?" 
"An'  what  wad  ye  make  o'  that?  How  ony  mon  in 
his  senses  could  gang  to  think  sic  jowkery-packery  wi' 
the  gran'  brewin'  ayont  the  Coogait  is  mair  than  ever 
I  could  win  to  understan'.  It's  by-ordinar,  fair!  .An' 
dinna  loup  to  deecesions  frae  the  claver  an'  lees  aboot 
muckle  things.     'T  was  Allan  Ramsay  himsel'  said. 


30      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

'Mony  ane  opens  their  pack  an*  sells  nae  wares.'  It's 
unco  strange  that  a  body  should  tak  nae  notice  o'  the 
learnin/  an*  the  gran'  courts,  an'  the  three  hunner  con- 
gregeetions,  an*  a*  the  bonny  kirks  we  hae  in  Ed'n- 
boro,  but  must  ever  be  spairin'  o*  the  siller.  Do  ye  think, 
noo,  it's  sae  vera  wonderful  to  'Put  twa  pennies  in  a 
purse,  an'  see  them  creep  thegither*.'*  Glesgie  may  ken 
a*  sic-like  gear,  I  'm  nae  sayin' ;  but  there 's  no  sae  muckle 
worth  in  that,  as  ye  '11  be  findin'  oot,  though  ye  read  in 
the  books  til  the  morn's  mornin'.  It's  a  fair  disgrace  to 
hae  sic  thochts.   Mon  can  sae  nae  mair." 

"At  any  rate,  there's  a  fine  university  there." 

"It*s  easy  sayin'  sae.  Muckle  service  is  it!  Gude 
kens  a'  they  learn  there!  Gin  it's  cooleges  ye '11  be  ad- 
mirin',  maybe  ye '11  no  be  so  vera  well  acquaint  wi'  our 
ain  toun.'*  There  *s  nane  in  a'  Glesgie  like  the  ane  ye  see 
the  day.   Mon,  it's  fair  dementit  ye '11  be." 

It  took  time  and  diplomacy  and  many  a  round  com- 
pliment on  Edinburgh  to  bring  him  out  of  his  sulk; 
but  eventually  he  yielded. 

"  Aye,"  said  he,  *'  I  believe  ye  '11  be  in  the  richt  the  noo. 
It's  gran'  up  here,  dinna  misdoot  it.  Mony's  the  braw 
sicht  to  be  had,  that's  a  fac',  an'  I  ken  them  a'  like  the 
back  o'  my  hand.  Sin  lang  afore  yon  trees  were  plantit, 
mare  than  ane  fine  dander  hae  I  taen  mysel',  bonny  sim- 
mer days,  lang  miles  o'er  the  heather.  Ye  '11  believe  me, 
I'd  gang  hame  and  sleep  soun'.  It's  na  sae  pleesant, 
maybe,  in  winter,  wi'  the  dour  haars  an'  the  fog  an'  the 


EDINBURGH  31 

east  winds.  But  I  aye  like  it  jBne  in  simmer,  wi'  a  bit 
nip  o'  wind  betimes  an'  then  fair  again.  At  the  gloam- 
ing it 's  quaiet  an*  cauller,  and  then  aiblins  I  bide  a  blink 
an'  hae  a  bit  puff  o'  my  cutty,  an'  syne  I  '11  gang  to  my 
bed  wi'  an  easy  hairt.  But,  wheesht,  mon!  It'll  be  twa 
o*  the  day  by  the  noo,  I  'm  thinkin'?  Is  it  so !  Be  gude  to 
us!  Weel,  weel,  I'll  gang  my  gait.  I  maunna  be  late 
to  the  wark;  it's  a  fearsome  example  to  the  laddies. 
*A  scabbed  sheep,'  says  auld  Allan,  'smites  the  hale 
hirsel'.'  Guid  day  to  ye;  an'  keep  awa'  frae  Glesgie." 
And  with  many  a  sigh  and  rheumatic  hitch  he  shuflfled 
off  to  the  steps. 

The  old  man  was  right.  "  Frae  ane  an'  twa  o*  the  day  " 
a  blither  or  more  inspiring  spot  than  Calton  Hill 
would  be  hard  to  find.  What  more  could  possibly  be 
desired,  with  a  city  so  fair  and  famous  at  one's  feet  and 
the  air  tonic  with  the  sweetness  of  the  heather  and  the 
brine  of  the  sea !  Fancy  plays  an  amiable  role  and  adds 
to  one's  contentment  with  shadowy  illusions  of  the 
Canongate  of  bygone  days  acclaiming  Scotland's  kings 
and  queens  as  they  ride  forth  in  pomp  and  pageantry, 
with  trains  of  fierce  clansmen  from  the  furtherest  High- 
lands, with  pibrochs  screaming,  bonnets  dancing,  and 
axes  and  claymores  rattling.  And  Montrose  may  pass 
with  his  Graham  Cavaliers,  or  Argyle  leading  the  Camp- 
bells of  the  Covenant.  With  our  eyes  on  Holyrood, 
pathetic  visions  float  before  us  of  fair  Mary  of  many 
sorrows,  over  whose  gilded  gloom  the  poets  have  loved 


32      AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

to  linger.  One  moment  she  looms  in  the  heroic  martyr- 
dom conceived  by  Schiller,  and  the  next  we  see  her  as 
Swinburne  did  in  "  Chastelard,"  with 

"lips 
Curled  over,  red  and  sweet;  and  the  soft  space 
Of  carven  brows,  and  splendor  of  great  throat 
Swayed  lily- wise." 

Welcome  apparitions  of  later  days  throng  about  us  on  the 
hill:  Ramsay  and  his  "Gentle  Shepherd,"  young  Fer- 
gusson  and  his  wild  companions,  Burns  with  his  jovial 
cronies,  the  scholarly  Jeffrey,  the  learned  Hume,  the 
inspired  Sir  Walter,  the  delightful  revelers  of  the  "  Noctes 
Ambrosianse,"  the  gentle  Lady  Nairne,  the  eager,  bril- 
liant Stevenson,  and  Dr.  Brown  with  the  faithful  "Rab  '* 
and  Ollivantwith  *'Bob,  Son  of  Battle."  The  crisp  sun- 
shine lies  golden  on  Princes  Street  and  all  her  flowered 
terraces;  it  glints  the  grim  redoubts  of  the  Castle  and 
lingers  on  the  crooked  gables  of  High  Street.  From  the 
brown  heather  of  the  Pentlands  to  the  distant  sparkle 
of  the  Firth  stretches  a  vigorous  and  comely  land.  What 
man  so  callous  as  to  feel  no  joy  in  "Scotia's  Darling 
Seat"! 


ANTWERP 

2    P.M.    TO    3    P.M. 


ANTWERP 

2  P.M.    TO   3    P.M. 

A  TABLE  in  the  lively  little  Cafe  de  la  Terrasse,  up  on 
the  broad  stone  promenoir  overhanging  the  Antwerp 
docks,  is  one  place  in  a  thousand  for  the  man  who  is 
inclined  toward  any  such  unusual  combination  as  a 
maximum  of  twentieth-century  business  activity  in  a 
setting  of  the  Middle  Ages.  He  is  fortunate  in  locality 
and  happy  in  surroundings.  A  Parisian  waiter  removes 
the  remains  of  his  light  luncheon  of  a  salad  of  Belgian 
greens  fresh  this  morning  from  a  trim  truck  garden  be- 
yond the  ramparts,  refills  the  thin  tumbler  to  the  taste 
of  the  guest  with  foaming  local  Orge  or  light  Brussels 
Faro  or  the  bitter  product  of  Ghent  or  the  flat,  insipid 
stuff  they  boast  about  at  Louvain,  and  supplies  a  light 
for  an  excellent  cigar  made  here  in  Antwerp  of  the  best 
growth  of  Havana.  Supposing  it  to  be  two  o'clock  of  the 
usual  mottled,  doubtful  afternoon,  —  for  Antwerp's 
weather,  like  Antwerp's  history,  is  mingled  sunshine  and 
shadows,  —  the  loiterer  may  look  out  at  his  ease  on  a 
notable  and  fascinating  panorama.  Beneath  him  and  to 
either  side  extend  miles  of  massive  docks  of  ponderous 
masonry,  upon  and  about  which  swarms  an  ant-like 
multitude  of  nimble  and  active  longshoremen  plying 


36      AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

a  network  of  ropes  and  tackle,  and  directing  the  labors 
of  vast,  writhing  derricks  that  toil  like  a  mechanical 
Israel  in  bondage.  Snuggling  close  to  the  grim  granite 
walls  are  merchant  mammoths  from  the  ends  of  the 
earth,  and  into  these,  with  the  ease  of  a  man  stooping 
for  a  pin,  gigantic  steel  arms  sweep  tons  of  casks  and 
bales  that  they  have  lightly  plucked  out  of  long  wharf 
trains  lying  alongside.  There  is  a  prodigious  bustling 
of  porters  in  long  blue  blouses,  shouts  and  cries  from 
the  riverful  of  shipping,  trampling  of  thousands  of  hob- 
nailed shoes,  and  an  incessant  clatter  of  the  wooden 
sabots  of  little  Antwerp  boys  in  peaked  caps  and  baggy 
blue  trousers  and  of  little  Antwerp  girls  in  bright  skirts 
and  curious  white  headdress. 

This  sort  of  thing  is  proceeding  for  miles  up  and  down 
the  river  front,  and  all  through  the  intricate  series  of 
locks  and  bassins  and  canals  that  quadruple  the  wharf- 
age of  this  rejuvenated  old  Flemish  city.  They  are  re- 
ceiving whole  argosies  of  raw  material  in  the  shape  of 
hides,  tobacco,  and  textiles,  and  are  sending  away  for- 
tunes in  cut  diamonds,  delicate  laces,  linens,  beer, 
sugar,  and  innumerable  clever  products  of  human 
hands  from  fragile  glass  to  ponderous  machinery.  And 
they  do  it  with  more  ease  and,  it  seems  necessary  to 
add,  with  less  profanity  than  any  other  port  of  Europe. 
What,  then,  could  have  possessed  the  genial  Eugene 
Field  to  pass  along  that  ancient  slander  on  the  excellent 
burghers  of  Flanders? 


ANTWERP  37 

'At  any  rate,  as  I  grieve  to  state, 

Since  these  soldiers  vented  their  danders. 

Conjectures  obtain  that  for  language  profane. 
There  is  no  such  place  as  Flanders. 


This  is  the  kind  of  talk  you  '11  find 
If  ever  you  go  to  Flanders." 

While  I  should  not  wish  to  take  such  extreme  ground  as 
that  assumed,  in  another  connection,  by  a  New  York 
police  inspector,  when  he  observed  that  "every  one 
of  them  facts  has  been  verified  to  be  absolutely  untrue," 
still  I  must  say  that,  as  far  as  I  could  notice,  there  is 
nothing  notable  about  the  Flemish  oath  as  employed  to- 
day. Indeed,  it  is  more  than  likely  that  one  could  pass 
a  long  and  pleasant  evening  loitering  among  the  tav- 
ernes  and  recreation  haunts  of  the  Belgian  soldier  and 
civilian  and  come  across  nothing  more  vocally  spirited 
than  robust  guffaws,  possibly  punctuated  discreetly,  or 
heavy  fists  thundering  the  time  as  a  couple  of  comrades 
scrape  over  the  sanded  floor  in  the  contagious  rhythm 
of  that  venerable  and  favorite  waltz  of  the  Nether- 
lands, — 

"Rosa,  willen  wy  dansen? 

Danst  Rosa;  danst  Rosa. 

Rosa,  willen  wy  dansen? 

Danst  Rosa  zoet!" 

On  the  other  hand,  if,  with  this  much  of  an  excuse,  a 
stranger  should  go  exploring  Antwerp  between  two  and 


38   AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

three  o'clock  in  quest  of  "verkoop  men  dranken"  signs, 
he  would  be  quite  otherwise  repaid  in  the  discovery  of 
charming  huddled  and  crooked  streets  and  a  wealth 
of  architectural  quaintness  and  beauty.  He  would  have 
no  difficulty  in  finding  tavernes  and  drinking-places, 
particularly  along  the  river  front,  where  they  abound. 
As  he  passed  them  he  would  encounter  robust  whiffs  of 
acrid  and  penetrating  odors  with  tar  and  fish  in  the 
ascendancy,  and  catch  glimpses  of  a  wooden-shod 
peasantry  fraternizing  with  evil-eyed  *' water-rats"  and 
devouring  vast  quantities  of  salmon  and  sauerkraut 
washed  down  with  ale  and  white  beer.  There  is  no 
charge  now,  as  once  there  was,  for  noise  made  by  patrons. 
The  silk-fingered  gentry  overreached  themselves  here, 
for  when,  a  number  of  years  ago,  they  had  carried  the 
robbing  of  foreign  sailors  to  the  point  of  international 
notoriety,  the  authorities  took  a  hand  and  devised  a  sys- 
tem of  payment  for  Jack  ashore;  then  the  American  and 
English  ministers  and  consuls  established  and  made 
popular  the  Sailors'  Bethel  on  the  quay,  with  its  clean 
and  attractive  reading-  and  amusement-rooms,  and  the 
Sailors'  Home  on  Canal  de  I'Ancre,  where,  for  fifty-five 
cents  a  day.  Jack  can  have  a  neat  little  room  to  himself 
and  four  excellent  meals  in  the  bargain.  For  these  rea- 
sons among  others,  a  visitor,  even  by  night,  finds  much 
less  of  noise  and  revelry  than  he  had  anticipated,  and 
beholds  the  thirsty  Antwerpian  content  himself  with  a 
final  "nip  "  at  an  estaminet  or  even  make  shift  of  a  "night- 


ANTWERP  39 

cap"  of  mineral  water  or  black  coffee  at  one  or  another 
of  the  city's  innumerable  cafes.  In  these  he  will  himself 
be  welcome  to  read  the  news  of  the  day  in  the  columns 
of  "Le  Precurseur"  or  *'De  Nieuwe  Gazet,"  or,  better 
still,  in  the  venerable  *' Gazet  van  Gent,"  one  of  the 
oldest  of  existing  newspapers,  with  nearly  two  hundred 
and  fifty  years  of  publication  behind  it.  The  real  drink- 
ing will  have  been  in  progress  where  the  out-of-town 
people  have  been  dining  a  prix  fixe,  and  clinking  their 
burgundy  and  claret  glasses  at  the  great  hotels  on  the 
Quai  Van  Dyck,  the  Place  de  Meir,  or  the  Place  Verte. 
The  palm  should  really  go  to  the  amusement  seekers 
of  the  latter  little  square;  for  nothing  this  side  the  ca- 
pacity of  an  archery  club  at  a  July  kermess  can  com- 
pare with  the  thirst  of  the  music  lovers  who  throng  the 
tables  on  the  sidewalks  before  the  restaurants  and 
cafes  of  jolly  Place  Verte  when  the  band  is  playing,  on 
balmy  summer  evenings.  Instead  of  dissipation,  the 
man  who  explores  Antwerp  makes  constant  discovery  of 
unanticipated  delights.  He  observes  about  him  in  the 
surprising  little  streets  of  the  old  section  an  amazing 
collection  of  absurd  roofs  slanting  steeply  up  for  several 
stories,  pierced  with  owl-like,  staring,  round  windows; 
house  fronts  by  the  hundreds  with  denticulated  gables 
stepping  upward  like  staircases  toward  the  sky;  and 
pots  of  flowers  and  immaculate  muslin  curtains  in  tiny 
doll-house  windows  peering  out  from  the  most  unex- 
pected and  impossible  places  away  up  among  the  eaves 


40   AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

and  chimneys.  He  will  catch  an  occasional  glimpse  of 
massive  old  four-poster  beds  with  green  curtains  and 
yellow  lace  valances;  of  shining  oak  chests,  and  high- 
back  chairs,  and  brown  dining-rooms  wainscoted  in 
polished  oak  and  most  inviting  with  ponderous  side- 
boards set  with  Delft  platters  and  gleaming  copper  and 
pewter  pieces.  From  time  to  time  he  will  see  large,  cool 
living-rooms  in  which  the  father  enjoys  his  paper  and 
meerschaum  pipe,  while  the  placid-faced  mother  em- 
ploys herself  with  lace  or  embroidery  and  the  fair- 
haired  daughter  at  the  piano  tells  how 

"Ik  zag  Cecilia  komen 
Langs  eenen  waterkant, 
Ik  zag  Cecilia  komen 
Mit  bloemen  in  haer  hand." 

As  I  previously  observed,  there  is  no  better  place  for 
a  preliminary  impression  of  Antwerp  than  along  the 
docks.  There  one  acquires  some  adequate  idea  of  the 
amazing  extent  of  its  industrial  operations  and  enjoys, 
at  the  same  time,  an  extraordinary  panorama  of  a  river 
choked  with  shipping  in  the  immediate  foreground, 
and,  on  the  opposite  bank,  the  sombre  redoubts  of  Tete 
de  Flandre  and  Fort  Isabelle  keeping  watch  and  ward 
over  the  flat  little  farms  that  extend  seaward  in  fields 
of  pale-green  corn  and  barley.  For  any  one  who  has  done 
the  proper  amount  of  preparatory  reading  on  Antwerp, 
it  will  inspire  stirring  thoughts  of  the  musical,  artistic, 
and  martial  career  of  this  rare  old  Flemish  town. 


ANTWERP  41 

If  the  visitor  be  a  lover  of  music  —  of  Wagner*s 
music  —  the  surrounding  uproar  and  confusion  will 
shortly  fade  into  a  charming  reverie  as  he  gazes  far 
down  the  glittering  zigzag  of  the  Scheldt  and  some  dis- 
tant glimmer  will  take  the  form  of  the  swan-boat  of 
Lohengrin  with  the  Grail  knight  leaning  on  his  shining 
shield.  The  docks  and  quays  will  have  disappeared,  and 
in  their  place  will  once  more  lie  the  old  low  meadows, 
and,  under  the  Oak  of  Justice,  King  Henry  the  Fowler 
will  take  seat  on  his  throne  with  the  nobles  of  Brabant 
ranged  about  him.  Fair  Elsa,  charged  with  fratricide, 
moves  slowly  forward,  sustained  by  her  dream  of  a 
champion  who  is  to  come  to  her  defense;  and  the  her- 
alds pace  off  the  lists  and  appeal  to  the  four  quarters  in 
the  sonorous  chant,  — 

"Wer  hier  im  Gotteskampf  zu  streiten  kam 
Fiir  Elsa  von  Brabant,  der  trete  vor." 

And  suddenly  the  peasants  by  the  water's  edge  cry  out 
in  amazement  and  point  down  the  reaches  of  the  river, 
and  there  comes  glittering  Lohengrin  in  the  "shining 
armor"  of  Elsa's  dream.  The  champion  steps  ashore 
and  gives  no  heed  to  the  awe-hushed  company  until 
he  has  sung  to  his  feathered  steed  what  now  every 
child  in  Germany  could  sing  with  him,  "Nun  sei  be- 
dankt,  mein  lieber  Schwan."  And  then  the  contest 
rages  and  the  false  Frederick  falls,  and  the  royal  cortege 
retires  to  the  neighboring  old  fortress  of  the  Steen.   All 


42      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

night  the  treacherous  Ortrud  and  her  defeated  Fred- 
erick plot  by  the  steps  of  yonder  cathedral,  and  there, 
in  the  morning,  Lohengrin  weds  Elsa  and  the  immortal 
Wedding  March  welcomes  the  "faithful  and  true" 
back  to  their  fortress  home.  The  black  night  of  mis- 
trust and  carnage  follows,  and  when  day  dawns  Lohen- 
grin bids  farewell  to  his  suspicious  bride  in  these  green 
Scheldt  meadows  and  sails  sadly  away  in  his  resplend- 
ent boat  drawn  by  the  dove  of  the  Grail. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  the  visitor  has  a  mind  for  his- 
tory, he  may  scorn  the  pretty  Grail  story  and  look  with 
stern  eyes  on  this  Scheldt  and  the  battle-scarred  city 
beside  it,  mindful  of  the  deeds  of  blood  and  fire  that  fill 
the  hypnotic  pages  of  Schiller,  Prescott,  and  Motley. 
The  monk  of  St.  Gall  could  have  appropriately  dedi- 
cated to  the  war-ravaged  Antwerp  of  those  days  his 
solemn  antiphonal  "media  vita  in  morte  sumus."  The 
grim,  turreted  Steen,  just  at  hand,  recalls  the  bloody 
reign  of  Alva  and  how  he  condemned  a  whole  people 
to  death  in  an  order  of  three  lines.  In  its  present  role  of 
museum  it  houses  hundreds  of  implements  of  torture 
that  once  were  drenched  in  the  blood  of  the  heroic 
burghers  of  Antwerp.  Not  all  the  horrors  of  the  ' '  Spanish 
Fury,"  when  eight  thousand  citizens  of  this  town  were 
butchered  in  three  days,  nor  the  stirring  memory  of  the 
"French  Fury,"  with  Antwerp  triumphant,  can  dim  the 
glory  of  the  heroic  resistance  the  "Sea  Beggars  "  made  to 
the  advance  of  the  Duke  of  Parma  up  the  Scheldt. 


ANTWERP,    FROM    THE    SCHELDT 


ANTWERP  43 

From  the  cathedral  tower  one  may  see  the  little  towns  of 
Calloo  and  Oordam,  on  either  bank  of  the  river;  it  was 
between  them  that  Parma  built  his  bridge  to  obstruct 
navigation,  and  against  it  the  men  of  Antwerp  sent 
their  famous  fire-ships  to  open  up  a  passage  for  the 
Zeelander  allies.  Gianibelli,  who  devised  them,  and 
whom  Schiller  styled  '*the  Archimedes  of  Antwerp," 
builded  better  than  he  knew,  for  with  one  ship  he  de- 
stroyed a  thousand  Spaniards  and  heaped  up  their  de- 
fenses into  a  labyrinth  of  ruin.  Could  Antwerp  have 
risen  then  above  the  clash  of  factions,  there  would  have 
been  no  need  later  to  tear  down  the  dikes  and  present 
the  strange  spectacle  of  ships  sailing  over  the  land, 
and  their  story  might  have  been  as  triumphant  as  Hol- 
land's, and  a  united  Netherlands  have  issued  from  those 
long  wars  with  Spain. 

Here  where  the  visitor  takes  his  afternoon  ease  many 
a  brave  pageant  foregathered  in  the  troubled,  olden 
days.  In  the  magic  pages  of  old  Van  Meteren's  chronicles 
we  see  them  pass  again:  Cold,  gloomy,  treacherous 
Philip  stepping  from  his  golden  barge  to  walk  under 
triumphal  arches  on  a  carpet  of  strewn  roses,  surrounded 
by  magistrates  and  burghers  splendid  in  ruffs  and 
cramoisy  velvet;  later  on,  the  Regent,  Margaret  of 
Parma,  strident  and  gouty,  whom  Prescott  has  called  "a 
man  in  petticoats";  and  then  the  bloodthirsty  Alva; 
then  the  dashing  "Sword  of  Lepanto,"  the  brilliant  and 
romantic  Don  John  of   Austria;  next,  the  atrocious 


44      AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Requesens;  and,  last  of  all,  the  revengeful  Alexander  of 
Parma.  Hopeful,  stolid,  impassive  Antwerp,  ever  the 
sheep  for  the  shearers,  ever  believing  that  at  last  the 
worst  was  over,  rejoices  in  her  welcome  to  each  as  though 
the  millennium  had  finally  dawned  on  all  her  troubles 
and  sets  cressets  to  blazing  in  the  cathedral  tower  and 
roasts  whole  oxen  in  the  public  squares. 

The  scream  of  a  river  siren  will  arouse  the  visitor 
from  the  Past  to  the  Present,  and,  with  a  sigh,  he  will 
saunter  forth  to  see  the  places  that  cannot  come  to 
him.  He  will  leave  with  regret  this  busy,  fascinating 
river  —  *'the  lazy  Scheldt"  that  Goldsmith  loved.  Ex- 
cited little  tugs  are  bustling  busily  about,  queer-coated 
dock-hands  struggle  mightily  with  their  mammoth 
burdens,  and  ships  of  every  shape  and  pattern  throng 
the  roadstead  before  him.  The  sharp  and  trim  Yankee 
sloop,  the  ponderous  German  tramp,  the  fastidious 
British  freighter,  the  clean-cut  ocean  liner,  and,  best  of 
all,  the  round-sterned,  wallowing  Dutch  craft,  green  of 
hull  and  yellow  of  sail,  —  all  are  here,  and,  he  can  think, 
for  his  especial  diversion.  A  canal  barge  crawls  labori- 
ously by,  and  in  that  floating  home  which  she  seldom 
cares  to  leave,  a  much-be-petticoated  mother  of  Fland- 
ers busies  herself  with  her  many  children  and  looks 
after  the  care  of  her  tiny  house;  —  and  looks  after  it 
well,  as  you  may  see  by  the  spotless  little  curtains  that 
flutter  in  the  windows  and  the  bright  pots  of  geraniums 
that  stand  on  the  sills.  One  recalls  the  keen  delight  this 


ANTWERP  45 

singular  craft  afforded  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  at  the 
time  he  made  his  charming  "Inland  Voyage"  from 
Antwerp.  Quoth  he:  "Of  all  the  creatures  of  com- 
mercial enterprise,  a  canal  barge  is  by  far  the  most  de- 
lightful to  consider.  It  may  spread  its  sails,  and  then 
you  see  it  sailing  high  above  the  tree-tops  and  the  wind- 
mill, sailing  on  the  aqueduct,  sailing  through  the  green 
corn-lands;  the  most  picturesque  of  things  amphibious. 
...  There  should  be  many  contented  spirits  on  board, 
for  such  a  life  is  both  to  travel  and  to  stay  at  home." 

Along  the  front  there  is  also  opportunity  to  expend 
a  couple  of  francs  to  advantage  for  a  ticket  on  the  com- 
fortable little  steamer  that  is  just  impatiently  casting 
off  from  the  emharcadhre^  and  to  go  sailing  with  her  on 
an  hour's  voyage  up  the  river  to  Tamise  to  view  the 
shipping  at  greater  length,  to  see  the  merchants'  villas 
at  Hoboken,  and  finally  the  famous  picture  of  the  Holy 
Family  at  the  journey's  end.  Otherwise  the  visitor  may 
take  a  parting  look  up  the  Quay  van  Dyck  and  the 
Quay  Jordaens,  examine  once  more  the  striking  Porte 
de  I'Escaut  that  Rubens  decorated,  and  so  turn  a  re- 
luctant back  on  the  bright  life  of  the  river  to  thread  a 
crooked  street  or  two,  cobbled  and  tortuous,  and  issue 
forth  on  the  Grand  Place  before  the  immense,  fantastic 
Hotel  de  Ville. 

In  the  drowsy  early  afternoon  this  quaint  and  curious 
old  city  hall  wears  a  most  friendly  and  reposeful  air. 
To  one  who  has  never  before  seen  any  of  these  extraord- 


46       AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

inary  Old-World  buildings  such  a  one  as  this  will  move 
such  incredulity  as  mastered  the  countryman  at  the  first 
sight  of  a  giraffe;  —  "  Shucks!"  said  he  when  he  had 
looked  it  all  over,  ** there  never  was  such  an  animal!" 
Fancy  a  rambling,  picture-book  of  a  structure  a  hundred 
yards  long,  made  up  of  the  oddest  combination  of  archi- 
tectural orders  —  massive  pillars  for  the  first  story, 
Doric  arcades  for  the  second,  Ionic  for  the  third,  and 
last  of  all,  an  abbreviated  colonnade  supporting  a 
steep,  tent-like,  gable-pierced  roof!  As  though  some 
touch  of  the  whimsical  might  even  so  have  been  neg- 
lected, behold  a  pompous  central  tower,  decorated  to 
suffocation,  arched  of  window  and  graven  of  column, 
rearing  itself  in  three  diminishing,  denticulated  stories 
above  the  long,  sloping  roof,  until  the  singular,  box-like 
ornaments  on  the  very  tiptop  appear  tiny  Greek  tombs 
of  a  cloud-hung  Acropolis.  The  statues  of  Wisdom  and 
Justice  could  pass  for  ^Eschylus  and  Sophocles,  and  the 
Holy  Virgin  on  the  summit  might  very  well  be  Athena. 
The  friendly  air  to  which  I  have  referred  extends  even 
to  these  statues,  who  have  the  appearance  of  shouting 
down  to  you  to  come  in  out  of  the  heat  and  have  a 
look  at  the  great  stairway  of  colored  marbles  and  rest 
awhile  before  the  splendid  chimney-piece  of  delicately 
carved  black-and-white  stone  in  the  elaborate  Salle 
des  Manages.  Subtle  matchmakers,  those  statues! 
And,  indeed,  if  Antwerp  is  the  first  steamer-stop  of  the 
visitor,  he  may  well  be  pardoned  for  reveling  in  this 


ANTWERP  47 

Hotel  de  Ville  as  something  that  for  picturesque  beauty 
he  may  not  hope  to  better  elsewhere.  And  yet  that 
would  only  be  because  he  had  not  seen  the  glorious  one 
at  Brussels,  or  the  grim  and  huddled  caprice  at  Mechlin, 
or  the  incredible  Halle  aux  Draps  at  Ypres,  or  the 
amazing  Rabot  Gate  or  Watermen's  Guild  House  of 
Ghent.  And  even  these  will  fall  back  into  the  common- 
place once  he  has  drifted  along  the  Quai  du  Rosaire 
of  drowsy  old  Bruges  and  been  steeped  in  picturesque- 
ness  and  color  that  is  beyond  any  man's  describing. 

No  one  who  cares  for  structural  quaintness  and  origin- 
ality can  fail  to  find  especial  delight  in  the  surround- 
ings of  this  venerable  Grand  Place.  Along  one  entire 
side,  like  prize  competitors  in  an  architectural  fancy 
ball,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  stiff  and  precise,  range  the  old 
Halls  of  the  Guilds.  The  Archers,  the  Coopers,  the 
Tailors,  the  Carpenters,  and  all  the  others  of  that  most 
unusual  alignment,  present  themselves  in  full  regalia 
of  characteristic  ornament  and  design.  As  though  in 
keeping  with  their  ancient  traditions  of  stout  rivalry, 
there  is  a  very  real  air  of  vying  between  themselves  for 
some  coveted  palm  for  fantastic  bizarreness;  and  all  the 
while  with  a  solemn  innocence  of  being  at  all  grotesque 
or  unusual.  One  could  laugh  at  their  naive  unconscious- 
ness of  the  prodigious  show  they  make,  with  sculptures 
and  adornments  of  bygone  days  and  a  combined  vio- 
lent sky-line  slashed  with  long  eaves  and  bitten  out 
in  serrated  gable  ends.   But  there  is  little  of  merriment 


48      AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

and  very  much  of  reverence  in  the  thoughts  they  excite 
of  worthy  pride  in  skill  of  craftsmanship  and  the  glory 
their  masters  brought  to  this  city  in  the  sixteenth  cent- 
ury in  winning  from  Venice  the  industrial  supremacy 
of  the  world.  In  those  days  there  were  no  poor  in  all 
Antwerp  and  every  child  could  read  and  write  at  least 
two  languages,  and  the  Counts  of  Flanders  were  more 
powerful  than  half  the  kings  of  Europe. 

But  the  Grand  Place  has  more  to  show  than  the  guild 
halls.  The  apogee  of  the  whimsical  and  fantastic  has 
been  attained  in  the  choppy  sea  of  red-tiled  roof-tops 
that  eddies  above  this  huddled  neighborhood.  Grim  old 
dormered  veterans,  queer  and  chimerical,  palsied  and 
askew,  have  here  held  their  own  stoutly  through  the 
centuries.  They  have  echoed  back  the  shouts  of  the 
crusaders,  the  triumphal  cannon  of  Spanish  royalty, 
and  the  free-hearted  welcomes  to  foreign  princes  come 
to  curry  favor  with  the  Flemish  merchant  rulers  of  the 
world.  They  have  turned  gray  with  the  groans  of  their 
nobles  writhing  under  the  Inquisition  and  rosy  with 
approval  of  the  adroit  and  courageous  William  of  Nas- 
sau. From  their  antique  windows  have  leaned  the  burgo- 
masters of  Rubens  and  the  cavaliers  of  Velasquez,  brave 
in  ruffs  and  beards;  and  out  of  the  most  hidden  nests 
of  their  eaves  the  wan  and  pallid  faces  of  their  hunted 
sons  have  been  raised  to  watch  the  approach  of  the 
ruthless  soldiery  of  Requesens  and  Parma.  These  old 
roofs  look  down  to-day  on  a  rich  and  happy  people 


ANTWERP  49 

whose  skill  and  tireless  industry  have  reared  a  commer- 
cial fabric  that  astonishes  the  world. 

At  this  afternoon  hour  the  Grand  Place  betrays  little 
of  its  early-morning  activity,  when  it  is  thronged  with 
the  overflowing  stands  of  busy  marketmen  in  baggy 
trousers,  and  banks  of  rich  colors  of  the  flower-women 
in  immaculate  linen  headdress  proffering  the  choice  out- 
put of  their  scrupulously  tilled  farms.  Scarcely  less 
picturesque  are  these  oddly  garbed  country-folk  than 
the  famous  fish-venders  over  at  Ostend,  and  certainly 
they  are  a  more  fragrant  people  to  shop  among.  A 
curious  and  colorful  picture  they  present  with  the  long 
lines  of  gayly  painted  dog-carts  blazing  with  peonies 
and  geraniums.  Huddled  around  the  great  statue  of 
Brabo  they  quite  throw  into  limbo  the  Daughters  of  the 
Scheldt  that  are  disporting  in  bronze  on  the  pedestal. 
Brabo  himself,  Antwerp's  Jack-the-Giant-Killer,  pauses 
on  high  in  the  act  of  hurling  away  the  severed  hand  of 
the  vanquished  Antigonus  as  though  he  could  see  no 
unoccupied  spot  to  throw  it  in.  Should  he  let  go  at 
random,  and  hit  house  Number  4,  he  could  surely  ex- 
pect to  be  hauled  down  forthwith,  for  the  great  Van 
Dyck  was  born  there,  and  Antwerp  is  nothing  if  not 
reverent  of  the  memory  of  her  glorious  sons  of  Art.  And 
Brabo  cannot  afford  to  take  too  many  chances  with  the 
security  of  his  own  position,  for  he  himself  has  a  rival; 
Napoleon  the  Great  was  really  a  greater  champion  of 
Flanders  than  he,  and  overthrew  a  worse  enemy  of 


50      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Antwerp's  than  the  fabled  Antigonus  when  he  raised 
the  embargo  on  the  Scheldt,  that  had  existed  for  a  cent- 
ury and  a  half  under  the  terms  of  the  outrageous 
Treaty  of  Westphalia,  until  scarcely  a  rowboat  would 
venture  over  the  silt-choked  mouth  of  the  river,  and 
only  then  to  find  the  famous  capital  a  forsaken  village  of 
empty  streets  and  abandoned  factories.  The  dredging  of 
the  channel,  the  expenditure  of  millions  in  construction 
of  wharves  and  quays,  and  the  restoration  of  the  city 
to  its  high  place  in  the  commercial  world  was  a  greater 
and  more  difficult  work  than  Brabo's. 

The  varied  and  vivid  life  of  Antwerp  unfolds  itself 
strikingly  in  the  early  afternoon  to  one  who  exchanges 
the  sleepy,  mediaeval  Grand  Place  for  the  broad,  curving, 
crowded  boulevard  of  the  popular  Place  de  Meir.  It  was 
just  such  clean  and  handsome  streets  as  this  that  in- 
spired John  Evelyn  to  write  so  delightedly  of  Antwerp 
two  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  describing  them  in  his 
famous  "Diary"  as  "fair  and  noble,  clean,  well-paved, 
and  sweet  to  admiration."  Indeed,  everything  seemed 
to  have  charmed  Evelyn  here,  as  witness  his  inclusive 
approval,  *'Nor  did  I  ever  observe  a  more  quiet,  clean, 
elegantly  built,  and  civil  place  than  this  magnificent 
and  famous  city  of  Antwerp."  Rubens,  the  name  of 
names  in  Flanders,  was  then  too  recently  dead  to  have 
come  into  the  fullness  of  his  fame;  whereas  to-day  one 
thinks  of  him  continually  here  and  likes  nothing  better 
than  the  many  opportunities  to  study  him  in  the  com- 


ANTWERP  51 

pleteness  of  his  wonderful  career  —  "the  greatest  mas- 
ter," said  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  "in  the  mechanical  part 
of  the  art,  that  ever  exercised  a  pencil."  Even  trivial 
associations  of  his  activity  are  cherished;  as  we  find 
them,  for  instance,  in  the  little  woodcut  designs  he  made 
for  his  famous  friend,  Christopher  Plantin,  the  greatest 
printer  of  the  era,  and  which  one  handles  reverently  in 
the  old  Plantin  house  in  the  Marche  du  Vendredi  — 
that  picture-book  of  a  house,  where  corbel-carved  ceiling- 
beams  overhang  antique  presses,  types,  and  mallets, 
and  great  windows  of  tiny  leaded  panes  let  in  a  flood 
of  light  from  the  rarest  and  mellowest  old  courtyard 
in  the  whole  of  the  Netherlands. 

The  Place  de  Meir  is  Antwerp's  Broadway;  and  an 
afternoon  stroll  along  it  affords  a  constantly  changing 
view  of  stately  public  and  private  buildings,  no  less  at- 
tractive to  the  average  man  than  those  "apple-green 
wineshops,  garlanded  in  vines"  that  delighted  Theo- 
phile  Gautier  on  the  river  front.  Little  corner  shrines, 
so  numerous  in  this  city,  shelter  saints  of  tinsel  and 
gilt  and  receive  the  reverence  of  a  population  that  has 
four  hundred  Catholics  to  every  Protestant.  One  must 
necessarily  delight  in  a  street  whose  houses  are  all  of 
delicately  colored  brick,  with  stone  trimmings  carved 
to  a  nicety  and  shutters  painted  in  softest  greens. 
The  imposing  Royal  Palace  is  graceful  and  beautiful, 
but  human  interest  goes  out  to  the  stone-garlanded 
house    across   the    way,  —  old    Number    54,  —  where 


52      AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN-  EUROPE 

Rubens  was  born  and  where  he  lived  so  many  years 
and  took  so  much  pleasure  in  making  beautiful  for  his 
parents.  On  either  hand  one  sees  solid  residences  of  the 
most  generous  proportions,  and  all  in  tints  of  pink  and 
gray,  and  busy  hotels  with  red-faced  porters  hurrying 
about  in  long  blouses.  Picture  stores  and  bookshops 
scrupulously  stocked  with  religious  volumes  beguile  ling- 
ering inspection.  There  are  establishments  on  every 
hand  for  the  sale  of  ecclesiastical  paraphernalia,  with 
windows  hung  with  confirmation  wreaths,  crucifixes, 
rosaries,  and  what-not.  Occasionally,  even  here,  one 
discovers,  crushed  in  between  more  consequential  busi- 
nesses, the  celebrated  little  gingerbread-shops  of  which 
so  much  amused  notice  has  been  taken.  Restaurants 
and  cafes  abound.  One  sees  them  on  every  hand,  with 
their  characteristic  overflow  of  tables  and  chairs  on  the 
sidewalk,  always  thronged,  both  inside  and  out,  with 
jolly,  chattering  patrons  and  gleaming  in  sideboard  and 
shelf  with  highly  polished  vessels  of  brass  and  pewter. 
Here  and  there  one  passes  the  confectionery  shops,  called 
^patisseries,  where  ices,  mild  liqueurs,  and  mineral  waters 
refresh  a  thriving  trade.  Stevenson  found  no  relish  for 
Flemish  food,  pronouncing  it  "of  a  nondescript,  occa- 
sional character."  He  complained  that  the  Belgians  do 
not  go  at  eating  with  proper  thoroughness,  but  "peck 
and  trifle  with  viands  all  day  long  in  an  amateur  spirit." 
"All  day  long"  is  apt  enough,  for  Antwerp's  restaurants 
and  cafes  are  always  thronged. 


ANTWERP  53 

These  ruddy-faced  and  placid  Belgians  are  a  very 
serene  and  contented  people.  It  is  pleasant  and  even 
restful  to  watch  them;  they  go  about  the  affairs  of  life 
with  such  an  absence  of  fret  and  fever.  Spanish- 
appearing  ladies  float  gracefully  past  in  silk  man- 
tillas; priests  by  the  hundreds  shuffle  along  leisurely  in 
picturesque  hats  and  gowns;  the  portly  merchant,  on  his 
way  at  this  hour  to  the  moresque,  many-columned 
Bourse,  proceeds  in  like  deliberate  and  unhurried 
fashion.  Street  venders,  in  peaked  caps  and  volumin- 
ous trousers,  approach  you  with  calm  deliberation  and 
retire  unruffled  at  your  dismissal.  On  every  sunny 
corner  military  men  by  the  score*' loafe  and  invite  their 
souls."  Tradesmen  in  the  shops  and  cabmen  in  the 
open  go  about  their  business  as  though  it  were  a  matter 
of  infinite  leisure.  Even  the  day  laborers  in  the  streets, 
whose  huge  sabots  stand  in  long  rows  by  the  curb,  sur- 
vey life  tranquilly;  why  worry  when  a  good  pair  of 
wooden  shoes  costs  less  than  a  dollar  and  will  last  for 
five  or  six  years  .'^ 

The  snatches  of  conversation  one  catches  betray 
the  confusion  of  tongues  inseparable  from  a  nation  of 
whom  one  half  cannot  understand  the  other,  and  whose 
cousins,  once  or  twice  removed,  are  of  foreign  speech 
to  either.  The  Dutch'spoken  in  the  Scheldt  country  is 
said  to  be  as  bewildering  to  a  German,  as  is  the  French 
the  Walloons  employ  in  the  valley  of  the  Meuse  to  a 
Parisian.  But  although  the  Flemish  outnumber  their 


54      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

fellow  countrymen  of  Wallonia  two  to  one,  still  French 
is  the  tongue  of  the  court,  the  sciences,  and  all  the  edu- 
cated and  upper  circles.  It  is  like  Austria-Hungary  all 
over  again.  And  French  continues  steadily  to  gain 
ground  in  spite  of  the  utmost  efforts  of  the  enthusiasts 
behind  the  new  "Flemish  Movement."  One  sees  both 
classes  on  the  Place  de  Meir,  —  the  stolid,  light-haired 
man  of  Flanders  and  the  nervous,  swarthy  Walloon. 
The  beauty  of  the  blue-eyed,  belle  Flamande  is  in  happy 
contrast  with  that  of  the  slender,  dark-eyed  Wallonne, 
and  their  poets  have  exhausted  themselves  in  efforts  to 
do  justice  to  either  side  of  so  delicate  and  distracting  a 
dilemma.  Our  grandmothers  heard  much  of  the  charms 
of  La  Flamande  when  Lortzing's  melodious  "Czaar  und 
Zimmermann"  was  so  popular,  seventy -five  yearsago: — 

"Adieu,  ma  jolie  Flamande, 
Que  je  quitte  malgre  moi! 
J'en  aurai  la  de  demand, 
J'ai  de  I'amitie  pour  toi." 

The  complexion  of  the  life  on  the  Place  de  Meir 
changes  with  the  hours.  Between  two  and  three  o'clock 
we  find  it  disposed  to  adapt  itself  as  closely  as  possible 
along  lines  of  personal  comfort.  By  five  it  will  be  lively 
with  carriages  and  automobiles  bound  for  the  driving 
in  the  prim  little  Pepiniere,  or  the  bird-thronged  Zoolog- 
ical gardens,  or  around  the  lake  in  the  central  park,  with 
a  turn  up  the  fashionable  Rue  Carnot  to  the  stately 
boulevards  of  the  new  and  exclusive  Borgerhout  sec- 


ANTWERP  55 

tion.  At  that  hour  one  may  count  confidently  upon 
seeing  every  uniform  of  the  garrison  among  the  crowds  of 
officers  who  turn  out  to  have  a  part  in  the  beauty  show. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  it  were  early  morning  —  very  early 
morning — and  the  sun  were  still  fighting  its  way  through 
the  mists  and  vapors  of  the  Scheldt,  the  Place  de  Meir 
would  resound  with  rattling  little  carts  by  the  hundreds, 
bearing  great  milk  cans  of  glittering,  polished  brass 
packed  in  straw,  by  whose  sides  patient,  placid-faced 
women  would  trudge  along  in  quaint  thimble-bonnets, 
with  plaid  shawls  crossed  and  belted  above  voluminous 
skirts  and  their  feet  set  securely  in  the  clumsy  wooden 
sabots  of  the  Fatherland.  Market  gardeners  in  linen 
smocks  and  gray  worsted  stockings  would  be  bringing 
Antwerp  its  breakfast  in  carts  only  a  little  larger  than 
the  milk-women's,  and  butcher  boys  would  be  scurrying 
by  with  meat  trays  on  their  heads  or  suspended  from 
yokes  across  their  shoulders.  And  all  the  echoes  of  the 
city  would  be  forced  into  feverish  activity  to  answer  the 
wild  clamor  of  the  barking  and  fighting  dogs,  shaggy  and 
strong,  that  draw  all  these  picturesque  little  wagons. 
Assuredly  there  are  few  sights  in  Antwerp  so  impres- 
sive to  the  stranger  as  this  substitution  of  dog  for 
horse.  It  has  been  celebrated  in  prose  and  verse,  with 
Ouida  possibly  carrying  off  the  palm  with  her  canine 
vie  intime,  *'A  Dog  of  Flanders." 

As  the  loiterer  continues  his  afternoon  stroll  to  the 
large  and  central  Place  de  Commune,  crosses  into  the 


56      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

chain  of  transverse  boulevards,  and  returns  riverward 
to  that  choicest  spot  of  all,  the  tree-shaded,  memory- 
haunted  Place  Verte,  he  is  bound  to  reflect  upon  the 
vast  changes  that  Antwerp,  above  all  other  Continental 
cities,  has  experienced  in  the  last  quarter-century.  He 
will  marvel,  too,  that  Robert  Bell  should  have  lamented 
in  his  charming  "Wayside  Pictures"  the  paucity  of  gay 
life  here  and  particularly  the  lack  of  theatrical  enter- 
tainment. It  may  have  been  so  when  Bell  wrote,  fifty 
years  ago,  but  it  is  decidedly  otherwise  to-day.  So  far 
as  theatres  go,  they  simply  abound;  nor  could  city 
streets  be  gayer  than  these,  thronged  with  a  merry, 
happy  people  and  bright  with  the  uniforms  of  artillery- 
men and  fortress  engineers,  grenadiers  of  the  line  and 
the  dashing  chasseurs-a-cheval.  Every  hotel  and  cafe 
has  its  orchestra;  and  in  the  early  evening  practically 
every  square  of  the  city  has  its  concert  by  a  band  from 
a  regiment  or  guild.  There  is  no  suburb,  they  say,  but 
has  its  own  band  or  orchestra,  or  both.  Indeed,  An- 
twerp is  nearly  as  music-mad  as  art-mad. 

The  shady  aisles  of  poplars  in  the  cozy  Place  Verte, 
the  perfumes  and  peaceful  sounds,  the  music  of  the 
cathedral  bells,  the  homelike  hotels  and  cafes  and  the 
drowsy,  nodding  Old-World  house-fronts  combine  to 
produce  a  sense  of  comfort  and  satisfaction  peculiar  to 
this  favored  little  square.  There  is,  besides,  a  special 
and  impressive  feeling  of  something  like  the  personal 
presence  of  the  great  Rubens;  partly,  perhaps,  from 


ANTWERP  57 

the  fact  that  the  city's  chief  statue  of  him,  a  lifelike 
bronze  of  heroic  size,  stands  at  the  centre  of  the  Place. 
Twice  the  normal  stature  of  man  it  is,  and  its  pedestal 
is  five  times  as  high  as  one's  head,  and  the  great  palette, 
book,  and  scrolls  are  all  of  more  generous  proportions 
than  such  things  actually  ever  are;  —  but  there  seems 
nothing  at  all  disproportionate  in  that,  considering  what 
he  was  and  what  the  average  man  is.  The  memory 
of  one  who  could  paint  a  masterpiece  in  a  day,  who  stood 
head  and  shoulders  above  every  living  artist  of  his  time, 
and  whose  work  has  inspired  and  delighted  mankind 
for  three  hundred  years,  becomes,  like  all  great  objects, 
positively  prodigious  from  actual  proximity.  Such  is 
the  inevitable  attitude  towards  Rubens  when  one 
touches  the  things  he  touched,  walks  the  streets  of  the 
city  where  he  was  born,  lived,  and  lies  buried,  where 
he  wrought  his  greatest  artistic  triumphs,  and  where  his 
finest  work  is  still  preserved  and  reverenced.  The  most 
admired  cathedral  in  the  whole  of  the  Netherlands  rises 
out  of  the  fluttering  tree-tops  of  the  square,  and  the 
greatest  treasures  it  contains  are  the  product  of  this 
man's  genius.  Every  one  feels  the  Rubens  influence  in 
the  Place  Verte;  Eugene  Fromentin,  fresh  from  his 
pictorial  triumphs  of  Algerian  life,  observed  in  "Les 
Maitres  d' Autrefois " :  *'Our  imagination  becomes  ex- 
cited more  than  usual  when,  in  the  centre  of  Place  Verte, 
we  see  the  statue  of  Rubens  and  further  on,  the  old  ba- 
silica where  are  preserved  the  triptychs  which,  humanly 


58      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

speaking,  have  consecrated  it."  Such  are  the  privileged 
emotions  of  the  wise  and  fortunate  visitors  who  pitch 
their  passing  tent  in  this  fair  and  favored  nook. 

Reflections  over  Rubens  naturally  arouse  thoughts 
of  the  many  sons  of  Flanders  who  won  preeminence  in 
the  domain  of  art.  No  other  city,  inexplicable  as  it  is, 
has,  in  modern  times,  seen  so  large  a  proportion  of  its 
citizens  achieve  the  loftiest  heights  of  fame  in  this  glori- 
ous activity;  nor  has  any  other  honored  art  so  unaffect- 
edly in  memorializing  their  triumphs.  In  Antwerp  there 
are  scores  of  streets  and  squares,  and  even  quays,  named 
after  its  artists.  There  are  also  fine  statues  to  Rubens, 
Van  Dyck,  David  Teniers,  Jordaens,  Quinten  Matsys, 
and  Hendrik  Leys,  and  other  memorials  to  the  brothers 
Van  Eyck,  to  Memling,  Wappers,  Frans  Hals,  Van  der 
Heyden,  De  Keyser,  and  Verboekhoven.  In  private 
and  public  collections  the  people  have  jealously  kept 
possession  of  the  masterpieces  of  their  fellow  country- 
men. The  Royal  Museum  of  Fine  Arts,  on  the  Place  du 
Musee,  is  as  much  a  treasure-house  of  Flemish  art  as  the 
Rijks  Museum  at  Amsterdam  is  of  Dutch  art.  Again 
Place  Verte  plumes  itself,  for  just  around  the  corner 
was  born  the  great  Teniers,  wizard  depicter  of  tavern 
life  and  kermesses,  and  on  one  side  is  that  tourists'  de- 
light, the  graceful,  feathery  well-top  that  Quinten 
Matsys  wrought  out  of  a  single  piece  of  iron,  before  the 
days  when  love  inspired  him  to  win  the  most  coveted 
laurels  of  the  painter. 


ANTWERP  59 

However,  art  aside,  Place  Verte  has  distinctions  of 
its  own.  Something  of  interest  is  always  occurring  here. 
Suburban  bands  hold  weekly  competitions  in  its  art- 
istic pavilion  and  the  most  skillful  musicians  hold  con- 
certs here  each  evening.  The  sidewalks  then  are  crowded 
with  chairs  and  tables,  and  at  the  close  the  people  rise 
and  join  in  the  national  hymn  "La  Brabangonne,*'  with 
its  out-of-date  lament  to  the  men  of  Brabant  that  "the 
orange  may  no  longer  wave  upon  the  tree  of  Liberty." 
Of  an  afternoon  a  regiment  may  swing  through  in  full 
regalia,  the  red,  yellow,  and  black  flag  snapping  in  the 
van,  and  the  band  crashing  out  the  ancient  war-song 
"Bergen -op-Zoom."  If  to-day  were  July  21  there  would 
be  tremendous  enthusiasm  and  cheering  celebrating  the 
Fetes  Nationales  in  honor  of  the  Revolution  of  1830;  as 
well  there  should,  for  Belgium  is  the  smallest  and  one 
of  the  most  desirable  little  kingdoms  of  all  Europe,  and 
the  national  motto,  "L'Union  fait  la  Force,"  has  to  be 
closely  adhered  to  if  the  Lion  of  Brabant  would  stand  up 
under  the  baiting  of  his  powerful  and  covetous  neigh- 
bors. 

The  passing  of  a  Sister  of  the  Beguinage,  in  sombre 
black  garb  and  an  extraordinary  creation  of  immaculate 
white  linen  on  her  head,  recalls  the  many  things  one 
has  read  of  this  interesting  and  noble  order  which  is 
peculiarly  Belgium's  own.  Their  neat  little  settlements 
are  a  source  of  endless  admiration  to  strangers,  and 
quite  as  fascinating  is  their  beautiful   vesper  service 


60      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

which  bears  the  pretty  name  of  the  "  salut  des  Beguines." 
Readers  of  Laurence  Sterne,  who  should  be  legion, 
promptly  recall  the  curious  story  of  "The  Fair  Be- 
guine"  that  Trim  told  Uncle  Toby  in  "Tristram  Shandy," 
and  the  valiant  Captain's  comment:  "They  visit  and 
take  care  of  the  sick  by  profession  —  I  had  rather,  for 
my  own  part,  they  did  it  out  of  good  nature." 

It  is  one  of  the  proud  distinctions  of  Place  Verte  to  be 
at  the  very  portals  of  Antwerp's  glorious  cathedral,  the 
largest,  richest,  and  most  beautiful  in  the  Netherlands. 
From  his  cafe  chair  the  visitor  watches  its  great  shadow 
steal  over  him  as  the  afternoon  wanes,  while  at  any 
moment  by  merely  raising  his  eyes  he  may  revel  in  the 
graceful  outlines  of  its  sweep  of  ambulatory  chapels  and 
let  the  aspiring  tips  of  delicate  pinnacles  and  arches 
entice  his  vision  to  the  loftiest  point  of  its  one  finished 
and  matchless  tower.  Never  was  Napoleon  so  pat  in 
"fitting  the  scene  with  the  apposite  phrase"  as  when 
he  compared  this  tower  to  Mechlin  lace.  It  is  delight- 
ful to  look  up  above  the  trees  of  the  Place  at  the  enor- 
mous bulk  of  this  tremendous  structure,  stained  and 
darkened  by  the  vapors  of  river  and  canals,  study  its 
rich  carvings  and  stained-glass  windows  centuries  old, 
and  note  how  the  blue  sky,  in  patterns  of  delicate  folia- 
tion and  fragile  arch,  shines  like  mosaics  through  the 
clustered  apertures  of  the  filmy  openwork  of  the  lofty 
tower.  A  hundred  bells  drip  mellow  music  from  that 
exquisite  belfry  every  few  minutes  all  day  long.    You 


ANTWERP  61 

listen,  perhaps,  to  detect  the  impression  they  gave 
Thackeray  of  a  new  version  of  the  shadow-dance  from 
"Dinorah,"  conscious  that  they  are  going  to  haunt  you 
as  they  did  him  for  days  after  you  have  left  Antwerp 
far  behind.  It  is  pecuHarly  appropriate  that  the  Lohen- 
grin Wedding  March  should  be  a  favorite  on  the  bells  of 
the  very  cathedral  where  Lohengrin,  according  to  the 
story,  was  married.  Indeed,  so  many  and  so  varied  are 
the  clear  bell-voices  of  this  great  carillon  that  their 
music  seems,  as  the  neighboring  bells  of  Bruges  did  to 
Longfellow,  — 

"Like  the  psalms  from  some  old  cloister, 
When  the  nuns  sing  in  the  choir; 
And  the  great  bell  tolled  among  them, 
Like  the  chanting  of  a  friar." 

Within  this  treasure-chest  of  a  cathedral  are  jewels 
worthy  of  such  a  casket.  One  goes  out  of  the  glare  of 
the  afternoon  sun  into  the  coolness  and  scented  gloom 
of  its  vaulted,  many-aisled,  and  multi-chapeled  vast- 
ness,  and  there  in  the  hush  of  worshipers  kneeling  in 
prayer  he  finds  splendid  altars  that  gleam  in  a  profusion 
of  ornaments  of  silver,  gold,  and  precious  stones,  glori- 
ous rose-windows,  carven  confessionals  and  choir  stalls, 
life-like  figures  in  wax  clad  in  silks  and  crowned  in  gold, 
hundreds  of  masterful  paintings,  a  high  altar  of  extra- 
ordinary splendor  blazing  in  costly  decorations  under  a 
golden  canopy  supported  by  silver  figures,  and,  at  the 
centre   of  the   seven   aisles,   Verbruggen's    far-famed 


62      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

carved  wooden  pulpit,  realistic  in  lifelike  foliage  and 
birds,  and  with  plump  little  cherubim  floating  aloft 
with  the  apparently  fluttering  canopy.  As  if  this  were 
not  enough  to  distinguish  any  one  church,  here  hang 
three  of  the  most  glorious  creations  of  the  hand  of  man, 
the  masterpieces  of  Rubens  himself.  The  Assumption 
alone  could  have  suflSced;  what  is  it,  then,  to  have  the 
tremendous  glory  of  the  presence  of  those  greater 
achievements,  The  Elevation  of  the  Cross  and  The 
Descent  from  the  Cross!  One  feels  he  could  easily  do 
as  did  the  hero  of  Gautier's  "Golden  Fleece"  and  carry 
away  forever  after  a  hopeless  passion  for  the  beautiful, 
grief -stricken  Magdalen. 

The  power  and  appeal  of  sheer  beauty  has  perhaps 
never  been  exampled  as  in  the  case  of  this  cathedral. 
Through  all  the  sackings  and  pillages  of  Antwerp  the 
savagery  and  destructiveness  of  her  foes  have  stopped 
here.  The  most  ruthless  soldiery  could  not  bring  them- 
selves to  lay  violent  hands  upon  it.  One  exception  stands 
out  in  this  remarkable  experience,  and  that  one  was 
quite  sufficient.  The  fanatical  "Iconoclasts,"  frenzied 
against  the  Church  of  Rome,  fell  to  a  depth  of  abase- 
ment below  the  worst  villains  of  Spain.  Those  atrocious, 
misguided  "Iconoclasts"!  What  a  frightful  page  in 
Antwerp's  history  is  the  one  that  recounts  the  three 
days  of  horrors  of  these  frantic  and  terrible  zealots,  three 
hundred  and  fifty  years  ago!  Schiller,  Motley,  and 
Prescott  have  told  the  story  as  few  stories  have  ever 


ANTWERP  63 

been  told.  In  the  calm  of  this  afternoon  it  is  impossible 
to  conceive  the  uproar  and  confusion  with  which  these 
lofty  arches  then  resounded.  Fancy  a  horde  of  men  and 
boys,  lighted  by  wax  tapers  in  the  hands  of  screaming 
w^omen  of  the  streets,  demolishing  the  altars  and  rend- 
ing and  destroying  every  exquisite  decoration  and  even 
tearing  open  the  graves  and  scattering  the  bones  of  the 
dead.  Says  Motley:  "Every  statue  was  hurled  from  its 
niche,  every  picture  torn  from  the  wall,  every  wonder- 
fully painted  window  shivered  to  atoms,  every  ancient 
monument  shattered,  every  sculptured  decoration, 
however  inaccessible  in  appearance,  hurled  to  the  ground. 
Indefatigably,  audaciously,  —  endowed,  as  it  seemed, 
with  preternatural  strength  and  nimbleness,  —  these 
furious  Iconoclasts  clambered  up  the  dizzy  heights, 
shrieking  and  chattering  like  malignant  apes,  as  they 
tore  off  in  triumph  the  slowly  matured  fruit  of  centu- 
ries." 

Not  the  cathedral  alone,  but  every  Catholic  temple 
of  Antwerp,  and  four  hundred  others  in  Flanders, 
were  sacked  in  this  sudden  revolt  against  the  Papacy. 
It  is  said  that  King  Philip,  when  he  heard  of  it,  fell 
into  a  paroxysm  of  frenzy  and  tore  his  beard  for  rage, 
swearing  by  the  soul  of  his  father  that  it  should 
cost  them  dear.  How  dear  it  shortly  did  cost  them, 
both  the  guilty  and  the  innocent,  we  are  shown  in 
the  picture  Schiller  has  drawn  of  Calvinists'  bodies 
dangling  from  the  beams  of  their  roofless  churches, 


64      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

of  "the  places  of  execution  filled  with  corpses,  the 
prisons  with  condemned  victims,  the  highroads  with 
fugitives."  Such  was  one  of  the  extraordinary  experi- 
ences through  which  this  beautiful  cathedral  passed  — 
one  of  the  maddest,  most  senseless,  and  most  frightfully 
punished  outbreaks  in  all  history. 

In  the  company  of  the  doves  that  nest  among  the 
pinnacles  and  arches  away  up  in  the  cathedral  tower, 
one  looks  out  at  this  hour  on  a  very  considerable  por- 
tion of  the  little  kingdom  —  forty  miles,  they  tell  you, 
with  a  good  glass,  in  any  direction.  It  is  a  prospect  well 
worth  the  weary  climb.  Just  below,  the  tiled  and  gabled 
roofs  rise  and  fall  all  about  like  a  troubled  sea.  The 
crooked  streets  of  the  old  section  and  the  straight  ones 
of  the  new,  and  the  places  and  parks  in  verdant  spaces 
here  and  there  have  the  appearance  of  some  vast  topo- 
graphical map.  The  gray  Scheldt  lies  like  a  string  of 
Ghent  flax  to  Antwerp's  bent  bow.  A  wrinkled  arc  of 
massive  and  intricate  fortifications  wards  the  rich  city 
from  its  foes,  and  just  beyond  lie  numerous  tiny  villages 
all  with  the  exact  primness  of  mathematical  problems. 
An  unusual  country  view  is  spread  out  on  every  hand. 
Canals,  numerous  as  fences  and  dotted  with  boats 
and  slowly-moving  barges,  sear  the  green  fields  like 
pale-blue  scars;  and  white,  dusty  roads  criss-cross  with 
their  solemn  flanking  of  tall  poplar  trees.  As  if  this  re- 
gion were  the  natural  habitat  of  some  strange  and  mon- 
strous form  of  animal  life,  one  beholds  everywhere  a 


ANTWERP  65 

semblance  of  motion  and  activity  in  the  gaunt,  wav- 
ing, canvas  arms  of  hundreds  of  plethoric  windmills. 
Diminutive,  trim  farms,  like  little  gardens,  give  the 
appearance  of  a  general  carpeting  by  Turkish  rugs  of 
vivid  and  diversified  design;  each  has  its  whitewashed 
cottage  roofed  in  thatch  or  tile  and  set  in  orchards 
hedged  with  box  and  hawthorn.  Fields  of  corn,  wheat, 
rye,  and  oats  expand  in  well-kept  richness,  and  in  all 
this  profusely  cultivated  region  men,  women,  boys,  and 
girls  toil  from  the  faintest  dawn  to  sunset,  and  often 
all  night  by  moonlight,  content  and  even  happy  in  the 
winning  of  enough  to  supply  clothing  and  shelter  and 
the  unvarying  fare  of  soup,  coffee,  and  black  rye  bread. 
Seaward  and  northward  lie  sand  dunes,  dikes,  and  pol- 
ders stretching  away  to  the  old  morasses  where  the 
valiant  Morini  faced  and  stopped  even  Csesar.  Liter- 
ary people  will  see  in  all  this  country  the  land  of  "Quen- 
tin  Durward,"  as  that  greatest  story  of  Flanders  comes 
to  mind,  and  they  will  perhaps  reflect  upon  the  char- 
acteristics of  the  good  burghers  of  those  days,  whom  Sir 
Walter  thought  *'fat  and  irritable,"  and  will  see  young 
Durward  defying  the  ferocious  *'  Wild  Boar  of  Ardennes  " 
in  the  perilous  service  of  the  fair  Lady  Isabelle,  herself 
a  Flemish  countess. 

To  the  northwest  one  sees  the  gleaming  reaches  of  the 
Scheldt  emptying  themselves  into  the  distant  sea  and, 
nearer  at  hand,  solemn  little  Terneuzen  where  the  ships 
turn  into  the  canal   for  Ghent  —  Ghent,  the  "Man- 


66      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Chester  of  Belgium,"  where"old  Roland  swings  in  his  bel- 
fry and  calls 

"o'er  lagoon  and  dike  of  sand, 
'I  am  Roland!   I  am  Roland!   There  is  victory  in  the  land.' " 

On  the  east  rise  the  spires  of  Westmalle,  where  in  their 
Trappist  convent  austere  disciples  of  St.  Bruno,  garbed 
in  sackcloth  and  with  shaven  heads,  pass  their  voice- 
less lives  and  keep  watch  beside  the  open  graves  in  the 
orchard.  To  the  south  is  venerable  Mechlin  on  the 
many-bridged  river  Dyle,  once  famous  for  such  laces  as 
we  may  still  see  in  the  pictures  of  its  immortal  son, 
Frans  Hals.  Brussels  lifts  its  towers  forty  miles  due 
south,  and  stretches  its  broad  roads  to  Waterloo.  And  it 
is  there  the  black  forest  of  Ardennes  expands,  where  St. 
Hubert,  patron  of  hunters,  intercedes  for  the  health  of 
good  dogs,  and  which  certain  Shakespearean  editors 
have  fixed  upon  as  the  Forest  of  Arden  of  "As  You  Like 
It."  Over  there  lies  Namur  where  the  gallant  Uncle 
Toby  of  "Tristram  Shandy"  received  the  painful 
wound  deplored  of  the  Widow  Wadman,  "before  the 
Gate  of  St.  Nicholas,"  as  the  precise  description  always 
ran,  "in  one  of  the  traverses  of  the  trench,  opposite  to 
the  salient  angle  of  the  demibastion  of  St.  Roch." 

One  lingers  long  and  delightedly  over  this  charming 
panorama  of  fascinating  and  storied  associations,  until 
presently  the  great  clock  beneath  us  booms  the  hour  of 
three,  and  our  time  is  up.  We  turn  regretfully  from 
this  toyland  country  and   the  gracious,  old-fashioned 


ANTWERP  67 

town  —  this  placid,  music-loving,  art-reverencing  Ant- 
werp, with  its  many  gables  and  its  many  rare  delights. 
The  friendly  moon,  a  little  later,  will  silver  her  huddled 
roofs  and  serrated  fronts,  her  fagades  whose  fantastic 
ends  will  be  steps  for  White  Pierrot  to  go  up  to  his  chim- 
ney-tops, her  quiet  squares  and  quaint,  twisting  alleys, 
her  solid  burgher  mansions  and  vineclad  waterman 
cottages.  Serene  and  chaste,  the  delicate  spire  of  the 
magic  cathedral  will  rear  its  traceried,  guardian  length 
from  out  the  deep  shadows  of  little  Place  Verte  and 
look  down  all  night,  with  the  affection  of  half  a  thousand 
years,  on  this  quaint  and  merry  Antwerp  snuggling  up 
to  the  languid  Scheldt. 


ROME 

3    P.M.    TO    4    P.M. 


ROME 

3   P.M.    TO   4    P.M. 

Like  the  lizards  in  the  dusty  Forum  ruins,  emerging 
from  dusky  retreats  to  warm  and  blink  in  the  sun  and 
then  flash  back  into  some  sheltered  refuge,  so  visitors 
at  Rome  issue  from  dim  closing  museums  at  three  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  and  gaze  around  in  a  stupid,  dazed 
fashion  on  a  sky  of  cloudless  deep  blue  and  on  placid 
streets  and  squares  that  seem  fairly  to  quiver  in  a  golden 
haze  of  strong  sunshine.  After  the  cool  interiors  the 
sultry  heat  seems  doubly  oppressive,  and  there  is  some- 
thing of  the  nature  of  a  mild  struggle  before  reality  suc- 
ceeds in  summoning  them  back  from  that  vague  state  of 
disassociation,  that  condition  of  all-mind-and-no-body, 
produced  by  an  intense  and  protracted  study  of  all  those 
wonderful  things  that  great  museums  contain.  To  this 
confused  condition  of  mind  there  is  generally  added  a 
further  disquieting  element  in  the  shape  of  a  blank 
misgiving  as  to  how  the  intervening  hour  can  be  toler- 
ably passed  before  joining  the  four  o'clock  promenaders 
in  the  Pinclan  Gardens  to  see  Roman  Fashion  at  its 
ante-prandial  rites.  And  yet  were  strangers  merely  to 
remain  receptive  and  allow  their  extraordinary  sur- 


72      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

roundings  to  assert  themselves  and  supply  the  diversion 
with  which  they  are  dynamically  charged,  this  is  an  hour 
that  might  well  prove  to  be  one  of  the  most  delightful 
of  the  whole  twenty-four  in  Rome. 

For  the  masterful  spell  of  the  Eternal  City  is  still 
world-conquering;  it  only  asks  the  chance.  Protract 
your  stay  as  you  will,  there  remains  at  last  a  sense  of 
awe,  almost  of  incredulity,  at  being,  in  the  actual  flesh, 
in  precincts  so  ultra- venerated  —  in  dread,  historic 
Rome.  It  is  only  a  somewhat  milder  form  of  the  feeling 
that  overpowered  you  the  very  first  morning  of  your 
visit  when,  after  the  night's  sleep  of  forgetfulness,  you 
read  with  amazed,  half-awake  eyes  the  printed  slip  on 
the  bedroom  door  that  aflSrmed  your  hotel  to  be  on  no 
less  august  an  eminence  than  one  of  the  seven  hills  of 
Rome.  Even  when  you  had  rushed  to  the  window  for 
corroboration  and  stared  out  in  excited  astonishment  on 
a  vast  shoulder  of  dusty,  reddish  brown  ruins  with  pert 
vines  greening  in  its  loftiest  recesses,  and  a  guidebook 
insisted  that  they  were  the  Baths  of  Diocletian,  a  re- 
luctant fear  remained  that  you  might  only  be,  after  all, 
in  the  pleasant  toils  of  the  old,  recurrent  dream  from 
which  you  might  shortly  and  miserably  awake. 

But  if,  at  three  o'clock  of  a  summer  afternoon,  the 
particular  museum  whose  doors  are  remorselessly 
closing  upon  your  final,  lingering  look  chances  to  be  that 
fortunate  one  on  the  Capitoline  Hill  that  houses,  among 
its  array  of  mellow  antiques,  the  pointed-ear  original  of 


ROME  73 

Hawthorne's  "Marble  Faun,'*  you  could  not  do  better 
than  make  use  of  the  remainder  of  the  admission  ticket 
and  have  a  survey  of  Rome  from  the  airy  summit  of  the 
campanile  in  the  rear.  To  effect  this,  one  picks  his  way 
among  the  imposing  remains  of  the  ancient  record- 
house  of  the  tabidarium,  mounts  the  long  flight  of  iron 
steps  in  a  corner  of  its  colonnade,  and  soon  reaches  the 
top  of  the  tower  of  the  Capitol,  with  Rome  as  utterly 
at  his  feet  as  ever  it  appeared  to  the  eyes  of  Alaric  and 
his  Goths. 

In  tones  of  soft  yellow,  gray,  and  dull  orange  the  roof- 
masses  sweep  northward,  eastward,  and  westward,  while 
to  the  southward  and  at  your  feet  lies  heaped  the  earthy, 
dusty  chaos  of  ruins  that  crown  the  imperial  Palatine, 
the  popular  Cselian,  and  the  luckless  Aventine  Hills. 
Parks  and  villa  gardens  are  blotches  of  dark  foliage;  and, 
within  its  white  embankment  walls,  the  sacred  Tiber, 
in  a  twisting  yellow  band,  rushes  swiftly  down  the  face 
of  the  city  in  its  mad  rush  for  Ostia  and  the  sea.  Be- 
yond the  most  distant  suburbs  extend  the  rolling  plains 
of  the  Campagna  like  an  all-embracing  sea,  until  they 
seem  to  wash  in  a  gentle  surf  about  the  Sabine  foot- 
hills, away  to  the  north,  and  brim  southward  to  the 
verge  of  the  Alban  Hills  beyond  the  farthest  glimpse  of 
the  Aqueduct's  long  line  of  broken  arches  or  the  dim- 
ming perspective  of  that  taut  thread,  the  Appian  Way. 
From  this  vantage-point  the  city  may  hide  no  surface 
secrets.    It  lies  below  us  like  an  enormous  fan,  whose 


74      AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

converging  point  is  the  round  Piazza  del  Popolo,  a 
good  mile  to  the  north.  Like  three  great  fingers,  there 
extend  from  that  focus  the  Via  Ripetta,  the  Via  Ba- 
buino,  and,  in  the  centre  and  running  toward  us  as 
straight  as  a  ruler,  the  popular  Corso  carrying  the  old 
Flaminian  Way  right  through  the  heart  of  modern 
Rome.  By  degrees  we  come  to  distinguish  familiar 
churches  among  the  hundreds  of  spires,  towers,  and 
domes;  to  pick  out,  here  and  there,  a  mediaeval  watch- 
tower;  to  locate  well-known  squares;  to  name  an  occa- 
sional obelisk;  to  identify  a  column;  and  even  to  par- 
ticularize some  of  the  scores  of  fountains  that  give 
latter-day  Rome  a  pleasant  distinction  among  modern 
cities.  The  ribbed,  blue-gray  dome  of  St.  Peter's  looms 
impressively  from  out  the  deep  green  of  the  Papal  Gar- 
dens of  the  yellow  Vatican;  the  circular  bulk  of  the 
Castle  of  Sant'  Angelo  and  the  columned  Pantheon  look 
as  familiar  as  old  friends  to  us  —  though  they  may  not 
be  friends  to  each  other,  with  the  latter,  under  papal 
stress,  forced  in  other  days  to  yield  its  beautiful  bronze 
tiles  to  make  saints'  ornaments  and  cannon  for  the 
former;  the  yellow  walls  of  the  Sant'  Onofrio  monastery 
mark  where  died  Tasso,  "King  of  Bards,"  and  where 
they  still  show  his  crucifix  and  inkstand;  and  yonder  is 
the  great  gray  church  where  Beatrice  Cenci  lies  in  her 
nameless  grave.  If  we  turn  and  look  southward  we  see 
strange  sun-tricks  among  the  bleak  and  shadowy  cor- 
ridors of  the  vast,   half-demolished   Colosseum,  and 


ROME  75 

crumbling  arches  of  the  emperors  warm  into  a  venerable 
dotage.  The  sun-baked  wreckage  of  the  Forum  ex- 
pands at  our  feet  in  rows  of  column  stumps,  shattered 
arches,  isolated  shafts  with  clinging  fragments  of  cornice 
and  entablature,  yawning  earthen  doorways  and  dusty 
heaps  of  cluttered  brick  and  tufa^  —  like  a  gigantic 
honeycomb,  —  while  all  about  it  birds  are  singing 
divinely  in  the  shade  of  the  laurels.  The  famed  Tar- 
peian  Rock,  just  at  hand,  has  little  suggestion  of  a  short 
shrift  for  traitors,  with  rookeries  nestling  snugly  to  its 
base  and  a  rose-trellised  garden  on  its  commodious 
summit. 

Victor  Emmanuel  II,  in  the  regal  cool  of  bronze, 
gazes  over  his  colossal  charger  in  the  gigantic  monument 
on  the  Capitoline  slopes  below  us  and  beholds  the  hills 
studded  with  the  pretty  white  villas  of  his  grandson's 
prosperous  subjects,  and  the  Quarter  of  the  Fields  car- 
peted with  the  neat  stucco  homes  of  the  poor  that  used 
to  languish  in  the  vile  slums  of  the  old  Ghetto.  Had  he 
read  Zola's  "Rome"  he  might  even  be  justified  in  frown- 
ing at  so  defamatory  a  description  of  so  pleasant  a  sec- 
tion. But  apparently  he  prefers  to  watch  the  afternoon 
glow  on  the  gleaming  domes  and  towers  and  myrtle- 
set  villas  of  the  Trastevere,  where  the  powerful  and  vio- 
lent descendants  of  the  ancient  Romans  still  dwell; 
and  to  take  amused  note  of  Garibaldi  over  there  twist- 
ing around  on  his  big  bronze  horse  to  keep  a  wary  eye 
on  St.  Peter's. 


76      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

It  taxes  the  credulity  of  the  visitor  to  comprehend 
that  yonder  is  the  renowned  Janiculum,  down  whose 
slopes  Lars  Porsena  led  his  troops  to  contend  with 
Horatius  Codes  and  his  intrepid  companions  as  they 
"held  the  bridge"  —  only  a  hundred  yards  from  where 
we  are  standing.  And,  indeed,  imagination  is  quite  un- 
equal to  the  tasks  set  it  on  all  this  historic  ground. 
Even  if  we  succeed  in  carrying  ourselves  back  through 
the  periods  of  the  popes,  the  emperors,  the  republic, 
the  kings,  and  possibly  the  shepherds,  what  is  to  be- 
come of  us  when  confronted  with  the  statement  of 
Ampere  that  there  were  really  "nine  Romes  before 
Rome."  It  is  quite  enough  to  undertake  the  reconstruc- 
tion of  ancient  Rome  to  the  mind's  eye,  such  as  authen- 
tic history  describes  it,  considering  how  repeatedly  its 
conquerers  sacked  it,  and  how  both  Nero  and  Robert 
Guiscard  burned  it;  and  that  the  Romans  themselves, 
as  Lanciani  insists,  have  done  more  harm  to  it  than  all 
invading  hosts  put  together.  ' '  What  the  Barbarians  did 
not  do,"  ran  the  famous  pasquinade,  "the  Barberini 
did."  It  is,  really,  asking  too  much  of  the  man  who  is 
risking  "  a  touch  of  sun  "to  see  the  city  from  the  swel- 
tering top  of  the  Capitol  Tower,  to  expect  him  to  be 
communing  with  himself  in  terms  of  travertine  and 
peperino  and  reassembling  antiquities  as  an  agreeable 
pastime.  He  will  probably  content  himself  with  a  hasty 
glance  around,  and  a  little  irreverent  levity  over  the 
task  of  Ascanius,  son  of  "the  pious  iEneas,"  in  building 


ROME  77 

a  city  on  the  scraggy  ridge  of  distant  Alba  Longa,  or  the 
scramble  the  Roman  bachelors  must  have  had  when  they 
scampered  down  the  neighboring  Quirinal  Hill  with  their 
arms  full  of  their  Sabine  allies'  wives.  As  he  trudges 
down  the  tower  steps  and  catches  periodic  glimpses  of 
that  ancient  Latium  that  is  now  the  Campagna,  he 
ought  to  devote  a  moment  to  self-congratulation  that 
the  pestilence  no  longer  stalks  there  by  night  and  noon- 
day, or  that  the  evil  campagnards  of  Andersen's  "Im- 
provisatore"  no  more  terrorize  with  impunity,  or  wild 
beasts  imperil  the  wayfarer;  but  rather  that  these  latter 
themselves  flee,  especially  the  foxes,  what  time  the  red- 
coated  gentlemen  of  the  English  Hunt  round  on  them 
among  the  shattered  tombs  of  the  Appian  Way. 

And  yet,  if  the  visitor  is  a  sentimentalist,  no  Italian 
sun  is  going  to  rob  him  of  his  reverie:  he  will  be  hearing 
the  cries  of  the  Christian  martyrs  at  a  Colosseum 
matinee,  and  beholding  the  pride  and  beauty  of  ancient 
Rome  loitering  along  the  palace-lined  streets  on  their 
way  to  the  afternoon  diversions  at  the  Baths  of  Cara- 
calla.  And  the  Forum  will  bustle  with  the  state  business 
of  the  world,  Cicero  will  mount  the  rostrum,  and  a  train 
of  Vestal  Virgins  pass  demurely  along  the  Sacra  Via. 
He  will  attend  the  mournful  wails  of  priests  at  worship 
in  the  temples  of  Jupiter  and  Saturn,  and  thrill  to  see 
a  detachment  of  the  Praetorian  Guard  dash  into  the 
Forum  and  acclaim  some  new  military  hero  as  emperor. 
But  this  should  be  sufficient  to  startle  him  back  to  the 


78      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Rome  of  to-day,  and  as  he  looks  anxiously  over  to  the 
northwestern  walls,  beyond  which  once  stood  that  in- 
famous camp,  he  will  doubtless  rejoice  devoutly  that  the 
sober  and  law-abiding  soldiery  that  drills  there  now  is 
something  so  very  different  from  the  uncontrollable 
"Frankenstein"  that  the  Caesars  devised  to  their  own 
undoing.  It  is,  in  consequence,  with  hearty  complacence 
that  he  will  turn  his  back  on  even  the  aristocratic 
treasure-heap  of  the  lordly  Palatine,  conscious  that  if  the 
cry  were  raised  to-day,  "Why  is  the  Forum  crowded, 
what  means  this  stir  in  Rome?"  the  reply  would  be 
forthcoming,  "Tourists  and  picture-card  sellers  and 
peddlers  of  cameo  pins." 

Parenthetically,  it  may  be  observed  that,  although 
pathos  and  bathos  rub  elbows  in  the  foregoing  reflec- 
tions, still  incongruities  come  very  near  to  being  the 
rule  in  latter-day  Rome.  What  is  to  be  said  of  obelisks 
of  the  Pharaohs  with  Christian  crosses  on  their  tops? 
Of  the  column  of  Trajan  with  St.  Peter  at  its  summit, 
and  at  its  base  those  twentieth-century  cats  that  visit- 
ors feed  with  fish  bought  from  stands  at  hand  for  the 
purpose?  Of  St.  Paul  on  the  column  of  Marcus  Aure- 
lius,  and  the  sign  of  an  American  life  insurance  com- 
pany across  the  street?  Of  a  modern  playhouse  in  the 
mausoleum  of  Augustus  where  the  emperors  were 
buried?  Of  the  present  use  of  King  Tarquin's  great 
sewer,  the  Cloaca  Maxima,  just  as  good  as  it  was 
twenty-five  hundred  years  ago?  Of  electric  lights  where 


ROME  79 

Cincinnatus  had  his  cabbage-farm?  Of  a  Jewish  ceme- 
tery above  the  circus  of  Tarquin?  Of  steam-heated  flats 
in  the  gardens  of  Sallust?  Of  modern  houses  at  the  Tar- 
peian  Rock,  and  the  Baths  of  Agrippa?  Of  street  cars 
with  the  name  of  Diocletian?  Of  automobiles  on  the 
Flaminian  Way?  Of  tennis  courts  beside  the  burial- 
place  of  a  Caesar?  Of  motor-cycles  around  the  tomb  of 
the  Scipios?  Of  an  annual  Derby  down  the  Appian 
Way?  Of  railroad  trains  beside  the  old  Servian  Wall? 
Of  telephone  booths  on  the  banks  of  Father  Tiber? 
Modernism  is,  indeed,  with  us,  as  his  Holiness  laments! 
The  sultry,  torrid  hour  that  lies  between  three  o'clock 
and  four  of  a  summer  afternoon  usually  sees  Rome 
rubbing  her  eyes,  fresh  from  her  siesta,  that  ancient 
midday  nap  that  Varro  declared  he  could  not  live  with- 
out ;  and  you  may  be  sure  the  final  rub  would  be  one  of 
vast  amusement  if  she  were  to  see  you  walking  on  the 
sunny  side  of  the  street,  where,  by  the  terms  of  her  im- 
memorial observation,  only  dogs  and  foreigners  go.  The 
heat  is  intense  on  these  lava  pavements ;  one  keeps  relig- 
iously to  the  shade.  But  Roman  society  is  not  rubbing 
its  eyes,  —  at  least,  not  in  town,  —  for  tout  le  monde 
is  passing  the  annual  villeggiatura  at  its  villa  in  the  hills 
or  by  the  sea,  economizing  for  the  fashionable  expendi- 
ture of  the  winter,  and,  incidentally,  obliging  the  people 
who  stay  in  town  with  that  much  more  of  elbow  room 
on  the  Corso  and  other  popular  promenades.  All  of  which 
helps  a  little  in  making  the  stroll  from  the  Capitoline 


80      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Hill  to  the  Pincian  Gardens  rather  more  comfortable 
than  moving  around  the  hot-room  of  a  Turkish  bath. 
As  we  pick  our  way  down  the  Capitoline  slope,  pass 
Marcus  Aurelius  on  his  fat  bronze  steed,  and  "bend  our 
steps,"  as  the  old  novels  used  to  say,  toward  the  tram- 
way-haunted uproar  of  the  Piazza  di  Venezia,  the  rabble 
rout  of  the  slum  district  on  the  left  affords  a  lively  con- 
ception of  the  element  that  goes  farthest  to  make  Rome 
howl.  Having  been  told  that  this  old  Ghetto  had  been 
swept  and  garnished,  one  is  properly  indignant  at  find- 
ing the  air  redolent  of  garlic  and  everybody  under  con- 
viction that  the  chief  end  of  man  is  to  amass  macaroni 
and  enjoy  it  forever.  You  gaze  askance  on  a  universal 
costume  of  filth  and  rags,  and  hurry  along  through  it, 
protesting  that,  while  you  would  not  invoke  the  pre- 
cedent of  Pope  Paul  IV's  sixteenth-century  method  of 
putting  gates  across  the  streets,  and  locking  the  people 
in  and  making  the  men  wear  yellow  hats  and  the  women 
yellow  veils,  as  he  did  with  the  Jews,  still  some  expedi- 
ent ought  to  be  hit  upon  for  making  the  district  look 
a  little  less  like  a  camp  of  Falstaff  recruits.  "A  frowzy- 
headed  laborer,"  say  you,  "shouldering  a  basket  of 
charcoal,  may  seem  attractive  in  Mr.  Storey's  *Roba 
di  Roma,'  but  in  real  life  one  likes  to  think  men  can 
afford  shirts,  and  not  have  to  wear  rags  over  their 
shoulders  after  the  manner  of  a  herald's  tabard."  You 
pause  a  moment  to  watch  the  disappearance  of  a  yard 
of  macaroni  down  some  red  gullet,  and  George  Augustus 


ROME  81 

Sala's  description  of  the  banquet  of  the  seven  wagoners 
rushes  to  mind:  "Upon  this  vast  mess  they  fell  tooth 
and  nail.  The  simile  is,  perchance,  not  strictly  correct. 
Teeth  may  be  de  troy.  You  should  never  bite  or  chew 
macaroni,  but  swallow  each  pipe  whole,  grease  and  all, 
as  though  it  were  so  much  flattery.  But  their  nails  they 
did  use,  seeing  that  they  ate  the  macaroni  with  their 
fingers.  What  wondrous  twistings  and  turnings-back 
of  their  heads,  what  play  of  the  muscles  of  their  throats, 
what  straining  of  their  eyeballs  and  vasty  openings  of 
their  jaws,  did  I  study  as  they  swallowed  their  food." 
And  now  we  begin  to  have  the  usual  experience  of 
Roman  mendicancy.  Truly,  there  is  no  beggar  like 
your  Roman  beggar.  He  has  raised  his  profession  to 
both  an  art  and  a  nuisance.  Appeals  to  charity  take 
every  form  and  phase.  Evidences  of  anatomical  dis- 
aster are  utilized  to  excite  pity  at  so  much  per  sigh.  Tales 
of  misery  and  misfortune  ring  all  the  changes  of  fer- 
vency and  fancy.  Their  whines  are  both  groveling  and 
dramatic.  "Niente!"  they  moan,  as  with  woe-begone 
faces  and  pathetic  twists  of  their  necks  they  sidle  up 
with  stiff  gestures  of  weary  and  hopeless  expressiveness; 
"  Illustrissimo !  Eccellenza!  Per  amor  di  Dio!"  You 
could  not  bluff  them,  though  you  were  armored  in  all 
the  calloused  nonchalance  of  the  average  ambulance 
surgeon;  and  your  doom  is  sealed  if  you  undertake  to 
bandy  repartee,  for  their  invective  is  as  searching  as  a 
satire  of  Juvenal.    Whether  you  give  or  not,  their  volu- 


82      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

bility  and  frankness  continue  unabated;  for  you  are 
savagely  cursed  if  you  decline,  and  if  you  acquiesce  are 
blessed  strictly  in  proportion  to  the  gratuity.  Indubi- 
tably, in  the  social  scheme  of  the  beggar  we  be  bre- 
thren all  and  should  each  aid  the  other  —  after  the  phil- 
osophy of  the  Italian,  saying,  *'One  hand  washes  the 
other,  and  both  the  face."  The  Roman,  understanding 
them,  passes  coolly  by;  but  the  foreigner,  who  is  their 
special  prey,  gives  up  in  desperation,  on  the  principle  of 
the  local  proverb,  *' We  are  in  the  ballroom  and  we  must 
dance.'* 

Parenthetically,  again,  they  say  the  authorities  are 
helpless  to  curb  this  universal  Roman  nuisance.  It  is 
an  institution.  These  beggars  come  of  all  classes  — 
from  the  Capuchin  and  Franciscan  lay  brothers  who  go 
about  in  brown  robes,  rope  girdles,  and  sandals  and  pre- 
sent a  basket  for  food,  to  the  dirty  urchins  of  the  Appian 
Way  who  stop  your  carriage  with  their  acrobatic  pro- 
ficiency and  then  howl  for  soldi  in  the  name  of  all  the 
saints.  Many  a  beggar  here  is  a  bank  depositor;  and 
any  of  them  who  can  retain  the  monopoly  of  the  door 
of  a  popular  church  may  confidently  look  forward  to 
affluence.  Very  likely  they  are  better  business  men,  in 
their  way,  than  many  who  drop  coins  into  their  pa- 
thetic, swindling  hands.   A  chacun  son  metier. 

It  would  extend  a  Brooklynite  to  negotiate  the  cross- 
ing of  the  Piazza  di  Venezia.  It  is  the  grand  gathering- 
place  of  tramcars,  busses,  cabs,  carts,  bicycles,  and  every 


ROME  83 

other  form  of  conveyance.  You  will  certainly  find  a 
"Seeing  Rome"  automobile,  with  the  lecturer  pointing 
out  the  castellated  old  Palazzo  di  Venezia  and  telling  his 
people  that  it  was  built  of  stone  from  the  Colosseum, 
and  has  been  the  seat  of  the  Austrian  embassy  to  the 
Curia  for  over  a  hundred  years.  So  far  as  traflSc  is  con- 
cerned, this  is  the  heart  of  Rome.  Nothing  less  than  a 
whirlpool  could  be  expected  in  a  spot  that  is  the  con- 
fluence of  such  full  streams  of  life  as  the  Corso  and  the 
Via  Nazionale.  One  admires  its  broad,  busy  sweep,  and 
the  dignity  of  the  solid  old  gray  buildings  that  rim  it.  No 
mid-afternoon  heat  lessens  the  bustle  and  activity  that 
rages  here;  even  the  experienced  natives  can  be  found 
in  large  numbers,  jostling  their  way  across  it,  and  visit- 
ors pass  through  in  droves  to  reach  the  Cenci  Palace 
or  to  see  the  spot  where  Paul  dwelt  for  two  years  "in  his 
own  hired  house." 

If  you  stopped,  as  I  did,  at  one  of  the  hotels  near  the 
Baths  of  Diocletian,  the  Via  Nazionale  will  have  a  friendly 
suggestion  of  the  nearest  way  home.  With  thoughts  of 
that  temporary  home  the  recollection  often  comes  to 
me  of  the  mildly  stimulating  delight  I  once  found  in 
getting  lost  by  night  in  this  city  of  superior  chance 
encounters.  It  seemed,  on  the  first  occasion,  as  though 
I  had  scarcely  turned  the  corner  into  the  Via  Cavour 
before  a  delicious  conviction  of  unfamiliarity  with  my 
surroundings  assured  me  I  was  pursuing  a  course  that 
was  certain,  sooner  or  later,  to  lead  to  artistic  discovery 


84      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

or  adventure.  Nothing  was  easier  than  getting  lost,  for 
I  was  newly  arrived;  and  yet  localities  and  objects  of 
consequence  were  not  without  significance,  for,  like 
every  one  else,  I  had  a  vivid  idea  of  the  landmarks  of 
the  famous  city.  And  first  of  all,  I  discovered  I  was  pass- 
ing the  infamous  spot  where  *'the  impious  Tullia" 
drove  her  chariot  across  the  bleeding  body  of  her  royal 
father;  whence  I  hastened  on,  with  furtive  glances. 
Next,  after  some  speculation  I  identified  an  enormous 
church  to  be  none  other  than  the  famous  Santa  Maria 
Maggiore,  whose  ceilings,  I  had  read,  were  crusted 
with  the  first  gold  brought  from  the  New  World,  and 
to  whose  high  altar  the  popes  used  to  come  by  torchlight 
for  New  Year's  mass.  I  thrilled  at  the  incredible  reflection 
that  the  street  cars  crossing  that  corner  would  be  pass- 
ing, a  moment  later,  the  site  of  the  gardens  of  Maecenas 
where  Horace  and  Virgil  had  mused  and  read  their  verses. 
A  few  blocks  farther  on  I  came  to  a  halt  before  the  house 
of  Lucrezia  Borgia;  and  I  tried  to  fancy  the  circumstances 
of  the  night  of  their  quiet  family  supper  there,  before 
the  children  took  leave  of  their  mother  with  false  words 
of  affection  and  Caesar  hurried  to  gather  his  bravos 
and  overtook  Francesco,  and,  mujffled  in  a  cloak,  sat  his 
horse  in  easy  unconcern  while  his  brother  was  done  to 
death  and  thrown  into  the  Tiber.  For  relief  I  turned 
across  the  street  to  the  church  of  St.  Peter-in-Chains, 
and  imagined  how  Michael  Angelo's  vigorous  Moses 
might  be  appearing  in  the  dark  of  the  side  aisle,  and 


ROME  85 

thought  of  the  master  striking  the  completed  work 
with  his  mallet  and  crying  out,  "Now,  speak!"  On  I 
rambled,  through  a  block  or  two  of  darkened  shops  and 
gloomy  houses,  and  suddenly  a  great  open  space  yawned 
before  me  and  I  was  staring  at  rows  of  column  stumps, 
mellowed  and  battered,  and  among  them  a  tall,  ghostly 
shaft  of  marble  with  a  spiral  band  of  half -mutilated 
reliefs  winding  away  up  to  the  summit,  where  was  the 
dusky  outline  of  a  sculptured  form.  It  was  the  old  school- 
geography  picture  come  to  life !  There  was  I  in  the  heart 
of  an  unfamiliar  city,  alone,  by  night,  with  this  vast 
relic  of  the  ancients.  It  was  like  Stanley  finding  Liv- 
ingstone in  Africa.  I  felt  I  had  honestly  discovered  it 
and  that  it  ought  to  be  mine.  It  was  the  Forum  of 
Trajan! 

It  will  seem  a  violent  transition  to  jump  from  mid- 
night to  mid-afternoon,  but  the  plunge  must  be  taken. 
The  normal  state  of  the  Corso  at  three-thirty  of  a  sum- 
mer afternoon  is  one  of  leisurely  activity.  The  crowds 
are  lethargic,  slow-moving,  inclined  to  curiosity.  An  in- 
teresting social  comedy  is  proceeding,  with  foreign  ladies 
playing  sight-seeing  roles,  clutching  their  red  Baedek- 
ers and  Hare's  "Walks  in  Rome."  Jostling  groups 
of  them  gather  before  the  beguiling  shop  windows, 
and  occasionally  one  enters  and  possesses  herself  of  a 
Roman  pearl  or  cameo,  or  perhaps  a  mosaic  or  copy  of 
an  antique  bronze.  Business  people  pass  along  in  their 
habitually  distrait  manner,  and  priests  beyond  number 


86      AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

brighten  the  scene  with  habits  of  every  hue.  There  is 
Httle  enough  of  room  in  the  middle  of^the  street  and 
scarcely  any  on  the  sidewalks.  Like  all  Roman  thorough- 
fares, the  Corso  is  clean  and  distinguished.  Long  per- 
spectives of  gayly  awninged  shops  extend  toward  the 
Piazza  del  Popolo,  agreeably  broken  here  and  there  by 
the  interposition  of  mellow  old  palace  fronts  and  richly 
sculptured  baroque  fagades;  and  there  is  frequent  op- 
portunity for  passing  glimpses  into  cool  courtyards  at- 
tractive with  foliage  and  fountains. 

Visitors  keep  forsaking  the  Corso  at  every  turning 
to  make  inspiring  discoveries  in  the  tangled  mesh  of  side 
streets.  We  are  at  liberty  to  suspect  those  who  go  to  the 
west,  of  sentimental  designs  on  the  star  under  the  dome 
of  a  neighboring  church  that  marks  the  spot  where 
Julius  Caesar  was  assassinated  in  Pompey's  Senate 
House;  or,  perhaps,  of  an  intention  to  visit  the  sombre 
statue  of  Giordano  Bruno  in  the  Field  of  Flowers,  and 
reflect  upon  what  a  constant  rebuke  it  must  be  to  the 
church  that  burned  him  there,  three  centuries  ago,  for 
persisting  in  his  "modernism"  to  the  outrageous  ex- 
tremity of  defending  the  astronomical  discoveries  of 
Copernicus  and  like  heresies  of  the  hour. 

Afternoon  walks  in  Rome  should  be  frequently  in- 
terrupted, not  only  to  escape  the  floods  of  sunshine,  but 
to  find  out  occasionally  what  is  behind  the  mellow 
garden  walls  over  whose  tops  glistening,  green  foliage 
droops  enticingly  down  with  hints  of  cool  and  restful 


ROME  87 

retreats.  Such  an  opportunity  presents  itself  here  in  the 
rare  Colonna  Gardens,  just  around  the  corner  of  the 
great  Colonna  Palace  where  earlier  in  the  day  the  Titians 
and  Tintorettos  ravish  the  artistic.  Spacious,  elegant 
Rome  has  nothing  more  charming  and  exquisite  than 
such  gardens  as  these.  Art  and  antiquity  are  everywhere 
in  restful  profusion  —  "storied  urn  and  animated  bust." 
It  is  even  said  that  sculptures  are  to  be  found  almost 
anywhere  underground  for  the  mere  pains  of  exhuming. 
One  rests  with  infinite  satisfaction  in  the  deep  shade  of 
eucalyptus,  cypress,  ilex,  and  laurel,  to  the  sweet  sing- 
ing of  multitudes  of  birds.  There  are  roses  and  oranges 
in  bloom,  and  tall  hedges  of  clipped  box,  and  musical 
little  cascades  tumble  down  from  terrace  to  terrace  and 
drip  over  mossy  marble  steps.  In  this  particular  garden 
come  thoughts  of  Michael  Angelo  and  Vittoria  Colonna, 
who  so  often  strolled  along  these  very  paths  and  com- 
muned in  their  serene  and  beautiful  friendship.  Theirs 
was  a  faith  that  brought  its  own  reward. 

And  what,  pray,  without  its  amazing  faith,  would  this 
Catholic  Rome  be,  anyway?  A  chaque  saint  sa  chandelle. 
Otherwise,  what  would  become  of  that  marble  block 
from  the  floor  of  the  Appian  Way —  which  the  stubborn 
archaeologists  will  insist  was  really  paved  with  silex  — 
that  is  preserved  with  so  much  reverence  in  the  church 
of  Domine  Quo  Vadis,  as  showing  the  impressions  of  the 
feet  of  Our  Lord  and  St.  Peter  when  they  faced  each 
other  there  on  the  occasion  of  the  memorable  rebuke 


88      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

of  the  latter  for  his  proposed  flight  from  Rome?  And 
how  about  the  scala  santa  —  the  worn  and  venerated 
marble  steps  in  the  shrine  near  the  church  of  St.  John 
Lateran,  which  were  brought  from  Jerusalem  and  up 
which  we  are  told  Christ  passed  on  his  way  to  the  judg- 
ment seat  of  Pilate?  The  faithful  thank  God  for  the 
privilege  of  ascending  them  on  their  knees,  praying,  and 
receiving  the  indulgence  of  a  thousand  years  of  purg- 
atory; and  they  were  worn  thin  with  kisses  long  before 
the  day  when  Martin  Luther  got  halfway  up  and  sud- 
denly quit  and  came  tramping  down  with  a  voice 
crying  in  his  ears,  "The  just  shall  live  by  faith."  And 
without  faith,  where  would  be  the  use  of  the  miraculous 
Bambino,  the  adored  and  bejeweled  little  wooden  image 
that  a  Franciscan  pilgrim  carved  from  a  tree  of  the 
Mount  of  Olives  and  which  is  imposingly  domiciled  in 
a  glass  case  in  the  church  of  Ara  Coeli?  They  say  there 
is  no  disease  that  the  Bambino  cannot  cure;  and  when 
his  keepers  accompany  him  through  the  streets  on  his 
errands  of  mercy,  conveyed  in  his  magnificent  buff 
coach,  people  kneel  by  hundreds  and  beseech  a  bless- 
ing. Such  blessing  may  be  secured,  though  possibly  of  a 
diminished  eflficacy,  by  buying  one  of  his  legended  cards 
at  the  church  and  having  the  priest  rub  it  across  the 
glass  top  of  the  case.  Who  would  eschew  faith  and  for- 
feit such  advantages?  Would  we  not  still  have  Life's 
puzzle,  and  without  this  key?  Might  we  not  even  be 
reduced  to  a  plane  as  confused  and  desperate  as  that  of 


ROME  89 

the  famous  Sultan  of  Turkey,  who  knew  so  little  of 
music  that,  when  his  new  Italian  band  had  finished 
tuning-up,  he  shouted  in  delight  to  the  leader,  *'Mar- 
shallah!   Let  the  dogs  play  that  tune  again!" 

At  this  languorous  hour  of  the  afternoon  the  broad, 
sunny  piazzas  with  their  many  fountains  afford  incom- 
parably lovely  loitering-places  on  the  way  to  the  Pin- 
cio.  The  one  of  the  Quirinal  is  a  near  neighbor  to  the 
Colonna  Gardens,  and  there  you  may  shelter  under 
eucalyptus  trees  and  dream  over  the  brown  old  obelisk 
and  the  vigorous  fountain  sculptures  of  the  "horse- 
tamers"  that  once  graced  the  Baths  of  Constantine, 
and  philosophize  over  the  irony  of  fate  that  converted 
a  papal  summer  residence  into  a  royal  palace.  Or  you 
can  thread  your  way  through  narrow  streets  of  the 
Middle  Ages  that  are  lined  by  ochre-colored  houses  with 
sun-shades,  where  artists  have  their  studios  and  trans- 
ients their  hotels  garnis,  and  down  which  a  belated  wine- 
cart  may  jangle  or  a  gayly  painted  Campagna  wagon 
creak,  with  its  oxen  festive  in  bells  and  crimson  tassels 
and  its  rugged  driver  clad  in  blue.  Were  you  to  follow 
these  typical  byways  of  mediaeval  Rome  until  you  came 
to  the  embankment  of  the  Sant'  Angelo  Bridge,  you 
would  pass  by  where  Benvenuto  Cellini  lived  among  his 
goldsmiths,  and  could  identify  the  Gothic  window  of 
the  old  Inn  of  the  Bear  where  Montaigne  stopped,  cent- 
uries ago. 

At  this  hour  the  Trevi  Fountain  is  doubly  appealing 


90      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

and  refreshing,  rejoicing  the  whole  side  of  its  roomy- 
square  with  sparkling  waters  that  dash  merrily  about 
Neptune  and  his  allies  in  the  wall  niches.  Devoted  as 
one  may  be  to  the  venerable  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella,  on 
the  Appian  Way,  he  will  fervently  commend  Pope  Cle- 
ment for  having  pillaged  some  of  its  stone  to  supply 
this  cheery  fountain  with  its  dramatic  setting.  Were 
this  our  last  day  in  the  city  we  should  certainly  toss  a 
copper  coin  over  our  left  shoulder  into  these  boiling 
waters,  to  insure  a  return  to  Rome.  Of  course,  one  is 
pretty  sure  to  come  again  anyhow;  but  that  makes  it  a 
certainty.  Besides,  it  is  much  less  trouble  than  going 
away  out  to  Tivoli  to  ask  the  same  thing  of  the  Sibyl 
in  the  Grotto. 

Were  you  to  yield  to  the  fountain  habit,  you  would 
go  bird-hopping  all  over  town,  for  no  city  has  so  many 
or  such  beautiful  ones  as  Rome,  thanks  to  its  huge  aque- 
ducts. It  is  a  never-failing  delight  to  turn  a  corner  and 
come  across  one  of  these  sun-deluged  pleasaunces  with 
its  crowds  of  picturesque  loungers;  its  tritons,  "rivers," 
and  sea  gods  disporting  themselves  in  attitudes  of  aque- 
ous grace  and  gayety;  its  flower-girls  banked  behind 
fragrant  barriers  of  roses  and  violets;  and  the  slender 
columns  of  water  streaming  sideways  like  tattered  flags 
in  a  breeze. 

Mid-afternoon  is  an  admirable  time  to  drop  in  at  the 
most  popular  of  all  the  piazzas,  the  Spanish  Square. 
One  wonders  how  the  jewelers  of  the  Via  Condotti 


4  IF 


.      ^  ^ 


.^4  T' 


I*?!- 


ROME,    THE    PIAZZA    DI    SPAGNA 


ROME  91 

manage  to  make  both  ends  meet,  with  such  a  superior 
attraction  at  hand.  It  is  certainly  one  of  the  most 
charming  nooks  in  Rome.  A  heavy  golden  sunshine 
glorifies,  at  this  hour,  the  broad  reach  of  the  Spanish 
Steps,  themselves  quite  as  wide  as  the  square,  that 
sweep  between  picturesque  parapets  like  a  yellow 
cascade  from  the  terraces  of  the  church  at  S.  Trinita 
de'  Monte  to  the  boat-shaped  fountain  in  the  piazza 
below.  About  them,  drowsy,  dusty,  Old-World  houses 
supply  a  pleasant  background  of  soft  color,  and  the 
crystal-clear  Italian  sky  spreads  above  like  a  cathedral 
dome.  The  flower  market  is  the  crowning  touch,  with  a 
flood  of  fragrant  blooms  welling  over  the  lower  steps  and 
rimming  the  fountain  edge  in  brilliant  hues  of  purple 
Roman  anemones,  orange  wallflowers,  white  narcissus, 
golden  daffodils,  snowy  gardenias,  violets,  camelias, 
hyacinths,  mignonettes,  and  every  fair  and  odorous 
blossom.  A  lovely,  sunny,  fragrant  spot — this  Piazza 
di  Spagna;  a  place  to  dream  whole  days  away  in;  a 
well-beloved  corner  of  fascinating  Rome,  where  one 
may  realize  to  its  fullness  the  beautiful,  consoling  reflec- 
tion of  Don  Quixote,  "But  still  there's  sunshine  on  the 
wall." 

Literature  has  had  its  chosen  seat  in  the  Piazza  di 
Spagna.  Half  the  traveled  world  of  letters  has  lived  or 
visited  there.  It  invests  the  spot  with  a  fresh  and  human 
interest  to  know  that  it  has  been  the  musing-place  of 
such  rare  spirits  as  Byron,  Smollett,  Madame  de  Stael, 


92      AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Cooper,  Andersen,  Thorwaldsen,  Hawthorne,  Goethe, 
Chateaubriand,  Dickens,  Scott,  Macaulay,  George  Eliot, 
Lowell,  and  Longfellow.  One  thinks  of  the  Brownings 
entertaining  Thackeray,  Lockhart,  and  Fanny  Kemble. 
But,  of  course,  the  closest  memories  are  of  Keats  and 
Shelley,  who  lived  in  either  corner  house  —  those  ra- 
diant friends  whose  ashes  repose  under  myrtles  and 
violets  in  the  cypress-shaded  cemetery  beyond  the  Au- 
relian  Wall.  The  works  of  all  these  authors,  as  also  of 
the  others  who  may  or  may  not  have  seen  the  Piazza  di 
Spagna,  —  along  with  the  idealism  of  Fogazzaro,  the 
sensuality  of  D'  Annunzio,  the  realism  of  Verga,  and 
the  grace  of  De  Amicis,  —  are  to  be  had  at  the  cele- 
brated shops  of  Piale  or  Spithover,  in  the  square;  where, 
also,  you  may  at  little  expense  become  a  momentary 
part  of  Rome's  bohemia  over  toast  and  muffins  in  the 
adjoining  tea-rooms. 

Chacun  a  son  gout.  If  you  are  cold  to  tea  there  may 
be  something  else  to  interest  in  the  numerous  cafes  of  the 
neighborhood  that  begin  to  hum  with  activity  as  the 
hour  approaches  four.  And,  indeed,  they  may  be  angels 
in  disguise  for  such  as  have  tried  pension  life  and  grown 
sadly  familiar  with  puddings  as  mysterious  as  Scotch 
haggis,  meat  that  suggested  travertine,  and  pies  con- 
structed of  something  like  silex  and  tufa.  Besides,  in 
the  cafes  you  can  regale  yourself  with  vermouth,  syrups, 
or  ices,  and  at  the  same  time  observe  the  Roman  at  his 
afternoon  ease  —  thus  realizing  in  yourself  the  acute- 


ROME  93 

ness  of  the  Italian  proverb,  *'One  blow  at  the  hoop 
and  one  at  the  cask."  It  is  quite  worth  the  cost  to  see 
how  quickly  the  chairs  and  little  marble-topped  tables, 
out  on  the  sidewalk,  are  taken  by  leisurely  habitues 
bent  on  gossip;  by  precise  old  gentlemen  in  lavender 
gloves  who  drop  in  for  a  tumbler  of  black  coffee  and  a 
hand  at  dominoes;  or  by  foppish  young  men  in  duck 
trousers,  who  clatter  on  the  tables  for  the  cameriere  to 
bring  copies  of  the  "Tribuna"  so  they  may  sup  on 
frivolities  and  horrors  along  with  coffee  and  tobacco. 

A  ruder  jocundity  also,  at  this  time,  is  making  its 
start  for  high  tide  in  poorer  sections,  where  in  arbored 
osteries,  Tuscan  wine-shops,  and  spaed  da  vino  straw- 
covered  fiascos  of  chianti  are  passing,  along  with  glasses 
of  local  wines  whose  prices  will  be  found  conspicuously 
chalked  up  on  the  outsides  of  the  taverns  at  so  many 
soldi  per  half-litre. 

As  we  follow  the  Corso  toward  the  Pincian  Gardens 
we  find  the  congestion  increasing,  with  a  decided  addi- 
tion of  carriages  all  bound  in  our  direction.  It  is  now 
the  hour  of  the  afternoon  passeggiata;  and  one  marvels 
that  the  ancient  campus  Martins  should  still  be  the 
heart  of  Rome,  and  wonders  how  this  narrow  street 
could  have  held  its  crowds  when  the  mad,  brilliant 
scenes  of  Carnival  riot  and  revelry  were  enacted  before 
these  old  Renaissance  palaces.  Every  restaurant  of  the 
tumultuous  Piazza  Colonna  is  working  to  capacity, 
and  groups  of  gay  army  officers  swagger  about  the  cor- 


94      AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

ners  and  over  by  the  marble  basin  beside  the  Column 
of  Marcus  Aurelius  where  the  taxi-cabs  have  their  chief 
stand.  No  red-and-white  street  car  dares  venture  in  this 
favorite  square,  but  busses  and  cabs  supplant  them  to 
distraction.  And  who,  indeed,  does  not  prefer  an  omni- 
bus to  a  street  car!  It  may  want  the  latter's  business- 
like directness,  but  what  a  holiday  air  it  has  of  cozy, 
informal  deliberateness !  It  is  coaching  in  town.  You 
may  not  arrive  so  soon,  but  what  a  lark  you  had !  And 
if  you  mock  at  the  faithful  bus,  there  are  the  imper- 
tinent Roman  cabs.  Here  is  speed,  seclusion,  and 
economy.  You  cannot  fail  to  be  suited  both  financially 
and  aesthetically,  for  you  may  pick  between  the  latest 
varnished  output  of  the  factory  and  venerable,  decrepit 
ramshackles  that  look  to  have  been  contemporary  with 
the  Colosseum.  The  Roman  cabmen  are  an  inconse- 
quent lot;  they  wear  green  felt  hats  and  greasy  coats, 
and  dash  at  one  with  a  reckless  scorn  of  human  life  that 
strengthens  a  suspicion  that  they  are  really  banditti  of 
the  Campagna,  transparently  disguised.  The  famous 
Column  of  the  philosophic  Emperor  never  lacks  its 
groupings  of  adaptable  "rubber-necks,"  who  are  twist- 
ing themselves  into  suicide  graves  trying  to  read  the 
spiral  band  of  reliefs  that  winds  away  up  to  the  statue 
of  St.  Paul. 

The  Corso  passeggiata  is  an  interesting  affair.  Toward 
four  o'clock  it  quite  fills  the  street.  Young  girls  are 
out,  with  their  inevitable  chaperons,  kittenish  and  alert- 


ROME  95 

eyed;  Bergamasque  nurses,  with  scarlet  ribbons  and 
extraordinary  silver  ornaments  falling  below  their 
snowy  muslin  caps;  clerks  in  sober  black;  Douane  men, 
in  short  capes  and  shining  hats  with  yellow  rosettes;  hat- 
less  women,  with  light  mantillas  over  their  blue-black 
hair;  the  stolid  country-folk,  —  the  contadini,  —  with 
the  men  in  brown  velvet  jackets  and  goatskin  breeches, 
and  the  women  in  faded  blue  skirts  and  with  red  stays 
stitched  outside  their  bodices;  the  despised  forestieri^ 
with  guidebooks;  carabinieri,  in  pairs,  resplendent  in 
braided  uniforms  and  cocked  hats;  the  nervous  Ber- 
saglieri,  with  shining  round  hats  and  glossy  cocks'- 
feather  plumes;  army  officers  in  cloaks  or  bright  blue 
guard-coats,  fresh  from  vermouth  at  Aragni's;  Savoy- 
ards in  steel  helmets  and  gold  crests;  diplomats  in 
silk  hats  and  Prince  Albert  coats;  and  clericals  by  the 
hundreds.  The  clericals,  indeed,  may  always  be  relied 
upon  to  supply  an  effective  color-touch  anywhere  in 
Rome.  They  come  along  in  fluttering  groups  of  every 
hue:  English  and  French  seminarists  in  cassocks  of 
black,  Germans  in  scarlet,  Scotch  in  purple,  and  Rou- 
manians in  orange  and  blue;  it  is  diverting  to  see  them 
raise  their  black  beavers  to  one  another  with  the  quiet- 
est and  most  serious  air  imaginable.  Solemn  lay  breth- 
ren shuffle  past  in  sombre  brown  of  Franciscan  and 
Capuchin,  or  white  of  the  cowled  and  tonsured  Domini- 
cans. Occasionally,  along  a  side  street,  one  passes  slowly, 
absorbed  in  his  breviary,  like  Don  Abbondio  in  ''I  Pro- 


96      AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

messi  Sposi."  Rome  abounds  in  shovel-hats,  shaven 
heads,  sandals,  and  hempen  girdles.  But  you  must  not 
expect  to  see  them  all  in  a  Corso  passeggiata. 

Unless  we  have  yielded  too  much  to  the  blandishments 
along  the  way,  we  should  be  crossing  the  sunny,  som- 
nolent circle  of  the  Piazza  del  Popolo  and  climbing  the 
fountained  and  statue-set  terraces  of  the  Pincian  Gar- 
dens as  the  first  strains  of  the  promenade  concert  usher 
in  the  hour  of  four.  The  spectacle  that  confronts  us  on 
the  low,  broad  brow  of  the  old  hill  is  animated  and  bril- 
liant. Hundreds  of  motor-cars,  private  carriages  and 
hired  cabs  roll  in  a  long,  gay  procession  around  the 
driveways,  their  occupants  arrayed  in  the  last  word  of 
Italian  fashion,  and  a  multitude  of  happy  loiterers 
stroll  leisurely  in  the  mild  afternoon  sunshine  along 
sylvan  paths  hedged  with  box  or  bordered  with  flowers, 
where  long  lines  of  marble  portrait-busts  of  Italy's  dead 
immortals  extend  into  the  pleasant  shade  of  groves  of 
myrtles  and  fragrant  acacias.  What  a  contrast  in  oc- 
cupation to  the  scenes  that  in  olden  days  were  enacted 
here  —  the  luxury  and  splendor  of  the  golden  suppers 
that  the  war-worn  Lucullus  gave  to  Rome's  poets  and 
artists;  or  the  vicious  and  voluptuous  orgies  with  which 
the  vile  Messalina  indulged  the  depraved  favorites  of 
the  Claudian  court!  Young  Rome,  this  afternoon,  has 
decked  itself  in  its  gayest  raiment,  and  youth  vies  with 
youth  in  gallantries  to  the  fashionable  beauties  who  pre- 
fer the  fascinating  town,  even  in  summer,  to  the  listless 


ROME  97 

diversions  of  the  country.  "Visiting"  goes  on  between 
carriage-parties,  which  is  said  to  answer  the  social  re- 
quirements of  calls  at  the  house.  Mild  refreshments 
are  being  served  in  a  lively  little  cafe  to  which  many 
repair  when  weary  with  lounging  among  the  brilliant 
flowers  and  lovely  foliaged  paths;  and  groups  ramble 
across  the  new  viaduct  and  stroll  among  the  sycamores 
and  stone-pines  of  the  neighboring  Villa  Borghese. 
The  Pincian  Gardens  seem  very  formal  and  compact 
and  precisely  ornate  as  compared  with  our  parks  at 
home,  but  there  is  much  more  of  sociability  and  com- 
fort than  is  to  be  found  Sunday  afternoons  in  New  York's 
Central  Park,  for  instance.  That  is  probably  because 
New  York's  pedestrians  are  centred  in  the  Mall  to  hear 
the  band,  or  around  the  lakes  to  watch  the  boating,  and 
all  her  carriage-folk  are  by  themselves  in  the  East  Side 
Drive.  The  Pincian  promenade  mingles  both  classes  into 
a  great  family  party.  It  is  a  brilliant  scene,  but  it  must 
have  been  much  more  so  in  other  days  when  the  popes 
joined  the  company  in  the  great  glass  coach  drawn  by 
six  black  horses  in  crimson  trappings,  and  outriders  and 
footmen  flocked  about  them. 

One  wonders  whether  Pius  X  does  not  sometimes 
think  with  a  sigh  of  regret  of  the  liberties  of  his  early 
predecessors,  as  he  paces  the  flowered  garden  paths  of 
his  voluntary  prison  and  lifts  his  gentle,  shining  face 
toward  these  pleasant  Pincian  heights.  How  often  will 
the  memory  recur  to  me  of   that  mild  and   friendly 


98      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

man,  as  once  I  saw  him  in  the  Vatican's  Court  of  the 
Pine,  in  his  snowy  robes  and  the  little  cap  scarce  whiter 
than  his  hair.  I  remember  his  only  ornaments  to  have 
been  the  famous  Fisherman's  ring,  and  a  long  gold 
chain  about  his  neck  from  which  a  great  crucifix  was 
pendent.  It  was  the  occasion  of  a  calisthenic  drill  given 
by  a  local  orphan  asylum  for  his  Holiness's  special  bene- 
fit. Each  little  athlete  in  gray  was  burning  to  do  his 
very  best  in  so  notable  a  presence,  and  was,  indeed,  suc- 
ceeding, with  the  glaring  exception  of  the  smallest  of 
the  band,  whose  eager  efforts  had  resulted  only  in  an  un- 
interrupted series  of  comical  mischances,  to  the  infinite 
chagrin  of  himself  and  associates  and  the  increasing 
amusement  of  the  Pope.  In  due  time  the  performance 
came  to  an  end,  and  the  boys  were  drawn  up  facing 
each  other  in  a  double  line  through  which,  attended  by 
cardinals,  chamberlains,  and  members  of  the  Papal 
Guard,  his  Holiness  passed  extending  his  hand  to  be 
kissed.  When  he  reached  the  diminutive  and  blushing 
blunderer,  he  halted  his  imposing  train  and  laid  his 
hand  on  the  boy's  head  and  smoothed  his  hair  and 
patted  his  cheek  with  affectionate  tenderness,  whisper- 
ing the  while  an  intimate  message  of  good  cheer,  as 
though  it  were  something  strictly  confidential  between 
himself  and  that  fatherless  little  waif  whose  face  was 
shining  with  reverence  and  awe  and  whose  eyes  were 
full  of  happy  tears.  I  am,  I  trust,  as  confirmed  a 
Protestant  as  the  next,  but  I  confess  that  my  heart 


ROME  99 

was  bowed  as  well  as  my  head  as  that  white-robed  figure 
turned,  as  it  disappeared  through  a  door  of  the  Vatican, 
and  raised  a  hand  toward  us  in  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

The  marble  parapet  of  the  Pincio  is,  at  this  hour, 
a  prime  favorite  among  Roman  loafing-places.  As  from 
an  upper  theatre  box,  one  looks  precipitously  down  into 
the  great,  peaceful,  siesta-drugged  circle  of  the  Piazza 
del  Popolo,  the  scene  in  other  days  of  so  much  cruelty 
and  often  of  so  much  happiness.  The  stone  lions  of 
the  fountain  spout  patiently  to  the  delighted  observa- 
tion of  scores  of  playing  children,  and  drowsy  cabmen 
nod  on  the  boxes  of  the  long  rank  of  waiting  victorias. 
One  may  indulge  to  his  fullest  in  moral  reflections  over 
the  slender  obelisk  from  the  Heliopolis  Temple  to  the 
Sun,  upon  which  Moses  himself  may  have  gazed  in 
days  before  Rome  was  thought  of,  and  when  the  celestial 
consorts,  Isis  and  Osiris,  still  waved  their  lotus  sceptres 
and  ruled  the  quick  and  the  dead.  Nineteen  hundred 
years  ago  Nero,  who  should  have  begun  blood-letting 
with  himself  instead  of  ending  it  there,  was  buried 
in  this  ground,  and  you  are  told  how  the  evil  spirits 
that  haunted  the  accursed  spot  were  not  finally  exor- 
cised until  yonder  church  of  Santa  Maria  had  been 
reared  above  his  tomb.  One  will  find  it  more  agreeable 
to  look  across  the  piazza  at  the  portal  of  the  Flaminian 
Way  and  re-create  the  scenes  of  the  triumphant  en- 
trance of  the  noble,  hardy  Trajan  walking  by  the  side 
of  his  fair  and  amiable  wife. 


100     AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

The  elm-tops  are  rustling  in  the  deep  groves  of  the 
Villa  Borghese,  and  the  yellow  Tiber,  "too  large  to  be 
harmless  and  too  small  to  be  useful,"  slips  swiftly  be- 
tween the  yellow  walls  of  its  quays.  To  the  mind's  eye, 
in  the  azure  distance  Mons  Sacer  is  clear,  and  Tivoli  and 
the  Sabine  Farm  of  Horace.  Like  the  Archangel  Michael 
on  the  Castle  of  Sant'  Angelo,  the  sun,  too,  begins  to 
sheathe  his  sword,  and  its  glitter  throws  a  warm  mantle 
over  the  shoulders  of  the  marble  angels  on  the  bridge. 
Most  conspicuously,  as  is  proper,  it  lingers  on  the  pale 
dome  of  St.  Peter's,  touches  into  life  the  sculptured 
saints  of  the  portico,  and  floods  obelisk,  fountains,  and 
all  that  vast  elliptical  piazza  toward  which  are  extended 
the  sheltering  arms  of  Bernini's  colonnade.  How  fair, 
beneath  that  roof,  are  the  dazzling  marbles,  shining 
tombs,  sculptured  effigies,  and  glowing  mosaics!  But 
fairer  far  is  this  prospect  from  the  hill,  of  Rome  in  her 
soft  coat  of  many  colors,  the  velvety  ruins  of  the  Pala- 
tine, the  stone-pines  in  sentinel  stiffness  down  the  dis- 
tant Appian  Way,  the  sunny  piazzas,  the  sparkling 
fountains,  and  the  verdure  and  bloom  of  the  slopes  of 
the  Janiculum,  under  the  cloudless  blue  of  a  soft  Italian 
sky.   Ave,  Roma  eternal 


PRAGUE 

4  P.M.   TO  5   P.M. 


PRAGUE 

4    P.M.    TO   5    P.M. 

A  BROODING,  stolid  city  is  Prague;  the  sombre  capital 
of  a  restless,  feverish  people.  It  is  the  hotbed  and 
"darling  seat"  of  all  Bohemia;  and  Bohemia  languishes 
for  her  lost  independence  as  Israel  did  by  the  waters 
of  Babylon.  She  does  not,  however,  pine  in  hopeless 
despair  like  the  Hebrews,  but  nourishes  a  keen  expect- 
ation of  regaining  her  lost  estate,  and  grits  her  teeth, 
in  the  mean  while,  with  fiery  impatience.  She  points, 
and  with  reason,  to  the  fact  that  the  Slavs  —  Czechs, 
Slovaks,  and  Moravians  —  easily  outnumber  the  Hunga- 
rians; yet  Hungary  is  free,  and  she  in  bondage.  And  so 
Bohemia,  for  all  her  exterior  of  gracious  courtesy ,  is  bitter 
and  hard  at  heart ;  a  people  of  a  passionate,  thwarted  pa- 
triotism ;  a  people  that  has  suffered  and  been  degraded, 
but  that  has  never  for  a  moment  forgotten.  Prague  is 
an  expression  of  all  this;  in  her  sullen,  gloomy  architect- 
ure; in  the  persistence  of  national  types  and  charac- 
teristics; and  peculiarly  in  the  wild,  reckless  Moldau, 
which  visualizes  the  traditional,  savage  intolerance 
that  is  bred  in  the  bone  of  the  fatalistic  Slav. 

There  are  too  many  daws  about  for  Prague  to  wear 


104     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

her  heart  on  her  sleeve,  so  while  she  bides  her  time  she 
presents  a  smiling  mask.  It  may  sometimes  be  a  rather 
weary  smile,  and  the  forests  that  engulf  her  are  gloomy 
and  sinister;  but  her  skies  are  not  always  lowering  and 
overcast,  and  the  peace  of  her  fatigue  from  the  national 
struggle  is  profound.  It  is  just  this  deep,  brooding  peace 
that  appeals  to  the  stranger  within  her  gates;  and  along 
with  it  he  senses  here  a  wonderful  charm  and  underlying 
subtility  that  invests  this  curious  old  city  with  a  lambent 
play  of  the  imagination. 

It  was  of  Prague  that  Alexander  von  Humboldt 
said:  *'It  is  the  most  beautiful  inland  city  I  have  ever 
seen."  And  it  must  have  been  of  some  such  spot  that 
"R.  L.  S."  was  mindful  when  he  expressed  the  paradox 
that  "any  place  is  good  enough  to  live  a  life  in,  while 
it  is  only  in  a  few,  and  those  highly  favored,  that  we  can 
pass  a  few  hours  agreeably."  Restfulness  is  surely  one 
of  the  prime  essentials  of  the  "highly  favored"  few; 
and  there  is  no  restfulness  at  all  comparable  with  that 
we  feel  in  some  venerated  spot  whose  present  hush  and 
quiet  is  a  reaction  from  its  other  days  of  fever  and  tur- 
moil. One  finds  these  qualities  in  Prague,  whose  calm 
and  serenity  seem  doubly  intense  in  contrast  with  its 
history  of  tumult  and  savagery  and  the  hatred  and  vio- 
lence that  racked  and  convulsed  it  for  hundreds  of  years. 
It  has  frequently  been  lightly  disposed  of  as  being  an 
"out-of-the-way  place";  but  no  place  is  more  delightful 
than  an  "out-of-the-way"  place, and  particularly  when 


PRAGUE  105 

it  has  the  natural  and  architectural  beauty  of  this  one, 
or  has  been  the  theatre  of  such  unusual  and  stirring 
occurrences. 

Had  we  but  one  hour  to  spend  in  Prague  we  should 
certainly  choose  the  charmed  one  between  four  and 
five  o'clock  of  an  afternoon.  The  sunshine  is  then  most 
languid  and  golden,  and  the  day  declines  slowly  over 
the  castled  tops  of  the  Hradschin-crowned  slope,  and 
the  lengthening  shadows  of  towers  and  turrets  creep 
out  on  the  river,  and  the  copper  domes  and  ruddy  tiles 
of  the  Neustadt  glow  in  bright  spots  against  the  darkling 
green  of  the  wooded  hillsides.  If  one  does  not  then  feel 
a  profound  and  elevating  sense  of  tranquillity  and  trans- 
lating beauty,  it  will  be  because  he  has  eyes  to  see  yet 
sees  not. 

Since  Prague  rests  under  the  imputation  of  being 
"out  of  the  way," —  and  even  Shakespeare  set  this  in- 
land kingdom  down  as  "a  desert  country  near  the  sea," 
and  lost  his  compass  completely  in  the  shipwreck  in  the 
"Winter's  Tale"  with  Antigonus  exclaiming:  "Our 
ship  hath  touch'd  upon  the  deserts  of  Bohemia";  and 
a  confused  mariner  replying,  "Aye,  my  lord;  and 
fear  we've  landed  in  ill  time,"  —  we  may,  perhaps, 
be  pardoned  for  observing  that  in  general  appearance 
it  is  a  wooded  valley  traversed  in  its  full  length  by  a 
swift,  turbulent  river,  which  follows  a  northerly  course 
excepting  where  it  bends  sharply  to  the  east  in  the  very 
heart  of  the  city.  This  stream,  the  Moldau,  rushes  along 


106    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

as  if  in  desperate  haste  to  throw  itself  into  the  Elbe,  and 
seems  to  have  the  one  idea,  as  it  dashes  through  Prague, 
of  getting  done  with  its  business  and  on  its  way  at  the 
earliest  moment  possible.  It  has  scoured  its  islands  into 
ovals,  slashed  the  rocky  bases  of  the  hills,  and  continu- 
ally assailed  its  bridges  and  quays.  But  through  all  its 
exhibitions  of  ill  humor  the  Praguers  have  indulgently 
condoned  and  even  extolled  it;  it  was  only  when  the 
beloved  and  venerated  Karlsbriicke  fell  a  partial  victim 
to  its  violence,  a  dozen  years  ago,  that  patience  ceased 
to  be  a  virtue  and  the  unnatural  marauder  was  compre- 
hensively anathematized  with  all  the  sibilant  fury  of 
the  hissing  tongue  of  the  Czech.  Speed  apart,  there  is 
little  to  complain  of  with  the  Moldau ;  it  is  broad  and  of 
a  pleasant  deep  blue,  and  the  beauty  it  supplies  to  the 
setting  of  the  city  is  supplemented  by  the  importance 
of  its  traffic,  the  amusements  on  its  many  little  wooded 
islands,  and  the  delights  of  its  boating  and  bathing.  In 
a  word,  it  is  a  noble  stream  —  and  none  the  less  Bo- 
hemian, perhaps,  for  being  a  little  proud  and  head- 
strong. 

As  the  afternoon  sun  lies  heavy  over  Prague  one 
notes  with  delight  how  snugly  the  old  city  nestles  along 
the  river  and  up  the  hillsides  of  the  valley,  and  with 
what  a  natural  and  comfortable  air;  not  at  all  as  though 
trying,  as  newer  cities  do,  to  shoulder  its  suburbs  out 
of  the  way.  It  seems  a  perfect  type  of  the  mediaeval 
town,  with  buildings  of  solid  stone  of  an  agreeable  and 


PRAGUE  107 

universal  creamy  tone,  four-square  and  enduring.  It 
abounds  in  quaint,  high  pitched  roofs;  incurious,  tur- 
reted  spires;  in  red  tiles  and  green  copper  domes;  and 
in  objects  of  antique  and  archaic  fascination.  Shade 
trees  are  everywhere.  Indeed,  from  the  thickly  wooded 
heights  of  the  surrounding  hills  right  down  to  the  river 
quays  the  gray  of  the  houses  and  the  red  and  green  of 
the  roofs  make  beautiful  color  combinations  with  the 
feathery  foliage. 

One  stands  on  the  old  KarlsbrUcke  and  looks  up- 
stream and  there  he  sees  the  rocky  heights  of  the  Wysche- 
hrad  Hill  on  which  the  fair  and  wise  Libussa  reared  her 
castle  when  she  laid  the  foundations  of  the  city,  thirteen 
centuries  ago,  and  which  he  will  want  to  visit  later  to 
look  over  the  fortifications  and  to  study  the  glowing 
frescoes  on  the  cloister  walls  of  the  Benedictine  monas- 
tery of  Emmaus.  In  the  elbow  of  the  Moldau,  down- 
stream, he  will  observe  the  old  sections  of  Prague 
huddled  together  in  cramped  confusion,  with  no  sign 
left  of  the  ancient  separating  walls  that  once  defined  the 
original  seven  districts,  though  he  is  to  learn,  by  and 
by,  that  the  early  names  remain  unchanged  —  the 
Aldstadt,  and  the  Jewish  Josephstadt,  and  around  and 
above  them  the  Neustadt,  which,  of  course,  from  an 
American  time-point,  is  really  not  "new"  at  all.  On 
his  left,  along  the  river,  he  sees  the  Kleinseite  spread 
out,  and  on  the  hillside  above  it  that  far-famed  acro- 
polis, the  redoubtable  Hradschin,  with  its  dusty,  bar- 


108      AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

racks-like  royal  and  state  palaces,  and  the  great  bulk 
of  the  cathedral  of  St.  Vitus  rising  out  of  it  like  some 
man-made  mount.  Such  is  the  first  bird's-eye  impres- 
sion of  Prague,  set  in  its  wooded  slopes,  stolid  and  softly 
colored.  Later  on  one  can  scrape  acquaintance  with  its 
rambling,  flourishing,  modern  suburbs,  to  the  eastward 
and  downstream,  and  wrestle  at  his  pleasure  with  such 
impressive  nomenclature  as  Karolinenthal  and  Bubna- 
Holeschowitz. 

,  Between  four  and  five  o'clock  the  visitor  will  find  an 
especial  pleasure  in  noting  the  activities  that  prevail  in 
the  several  little  green  islands  that  fret  the  impetuous 
Moldau  as  it  hurries  through  this  "hundred-towered, 
golden  Prague."  The  dearest  of  these  to  the  sentimental 
Czech  is  bright  Sophien-Insel,  that  you  could  almost 
leap  onto  from  the  stone  coping  of  the  neighboring 
Kaiser-Franzbriicke.  It  always  wears  a  gay  and  in- 
viting appearance,  with  cafe  tables  set  under  fine  old 
oaks,  but  precisely  at  four,  summer  afternoons,  the 
leader  of  its  military  band  lifts  his  baton  and  launches 
some  crashing  prelude,  and  the  noisy  company  instantly 
stills  and  with  nervously  tapping  fingers  and  glowing 
eyes  abandons  itself  to  that  music  passion  which  is  the 
deepest  and  most  intense  expression  of  the  Bohemian 
temperament.  It  gives  the  dilettante  a  new  conception 
of  the  power  of  this  inspiring  art  to  observe  the  signifi- 
cant and  varying  expressions  that  play  over  the  faces  of 
a  Prague  audience  under  its  influence.    He  witnesses 


PRAGUE,  THE  CASTLE  FROM  THE  OLD  BRIDGE 


PRAGUE  100 

then  the  profoundest  stirring  of  the  Slavic  nature  and 
the  moving  of  emotional  depths  beyond  the  conception 
of  the  reserved  and  impassive  Anglo-Saxon.  Especially 
is  this  so  when  the  music  is  of  a  national  character,  such 
as  the  "Ma  Vlast"  symphonic  poems  of  Smetana,  or 
a  Slavic  dance  of  Dvorak's.  These  Bohemian  masters, 
with  their  fellow  countryman,  Fibich,  constitute  a 
trinity  that  is  reverenced  in  their  native  land  to  an  extent 
that  almost  passes  belief,  and  that  has  done  so  much  in 
making  Prague  one  of  the  foremost  centres  of  Europe. 
The  music  from  the  Sophien-Insel  floats  down  the 
river  to  our  vantage-point  on  Karlsbriicke,  mellowed 
and  softened,  and  contributes  just  the  right  pleasing 
note  to  the  agreeable  mood  these  picturesque  surround- 
ings excite.  The  ponderous,  antique  old  structure  on 
which  we  stand  has  the  appearance  of  some  full-page 
color  illustration  for  a  charming  Middle-Age  romance. 
For  half  a  millennium  it  has  dug  its  broad  arches  into 
the  bottom  of  the  Moldau,  stoutly  defiant  of  flood  or 
storm.  Its  massive  buttresses  are  crowned  with  heroic 
statues  so  deeply  revered  that  pilgrimages  are  made  by 
the  faithful  to  pay  their  devotions  before  them.  For  a 
third  of  a  mile  this  old  veteran  strides  the  stream,  and 
at  each  end  he  lifts  an  amazing  mediaeval  tower  well 
worth  a  journey  to  stare  at.  These  ponderous  structures, 
weathered  by  centuries  of  storm  to  a  rich  brownish 
black,  are  pierced  by  a  deep  Gothic  archway  through 
which  the  street  traffic  pours  all  day.    Their  sides  are 


no     AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

decorated  with  colonnades  and  traceries,  armorial 
bearings  and  statues  of  ancient  heroes  of  the  city,  and 
their  tops  are  incredible  creations  of  slender  turrets  and 
of  pointed  roofs  so  desperately  precipitate  that  they 
seem  like  long  narrow  paving-stones  tilted  end  to  end. 
Catholic  legend  and  ceremonial  run  riot  on  the  old 
bridge.  The  statues  are  almost  altogether  of  a  religious 
character,  and  two  of  them,  the  Crucifixion  Group  and 
the  bronze  one  of  St.  John  Nepomuc,  are  practically 
never  passed  without  the  sign  of  the  cross  and  the  rais- 
ing of  hat  or  cap ;  in  the  case  of  the  latter  the  devout  will 
touch  the  tablet  that  marks  the  spot  from  which  he  is 
said  to  have  been  cast  into  the  river,  and  then  kiss 
their  fingers  and  bless  themselves.  For  St.  John  Nepo- 
muc, of  all  the  holy  martyrs,  was  Prague's  very  own. 
The  legend  is  dramatic.  Father  John  was  the  queen's 
confessor,  five  hundred  years  ago,  and  when  he  declined 
to  oblige  the  king  by  revealing  what  the  queen  had  told 
under  the  seal  of  the  confessional,  his  Majesty  had  him 
summarily  cast  into  the  Moldau,  from  just  where  we 
are  standing  at  the  centre  of  this  bridge.  The  result 
was  far  from  the  expectations  of  the  king,  for  not  only 
was  the  poor  priest  preserved  from  sinking,  but  — 
which  is  quite  as  hard  to  believe  of  so  swift  a  stream 
as  this  —  he  actually  remained  floating  for  four  days  at 
the  very  spot  where  he  fell,  and  five  bright  stars  hung 
above  him  all  the  while !  When  they  took  him  out  he  was 
dead,  and  to  this  extent  only  did  the  king  succeed.   As 


PRAGUE  111 

was  perfectly  natural,  the  amazed  Praguers  could  see 
nothing  in  all  this  but  an  astounding  miracle;  and  when 
Catholicism  had  finally  displaced  the  Protestantism 
that  followed  the  Hussite  wars  for  two  hundred  years, 
their  clamor  for  the  canonization  of  Father  John  event- 
ually resulted  in  placing  the  name  of  St.  John  Nepomuc 
in  the  catalogue  of  Rome.  Equipped  with  a  saint  all 
their  own,  they  adroitly  converted  the  statues  of  the 
Protestant  John  Huss,  that  stood  here  and  there  about 
town,  into  St.  John  Nepomucs  by  the  simple  expedient 
of  adding  a  five-starred  halo  to  each. 

Now,  if  to-day  were  the  sixteenth  of  May,  St.  John 
Nepomuc's  special  day,  we  should  behold  the  greatest 
festival  of  all  the  year.  An  altar  would  be  erected  be- 
side his  statue,  here  on  the  bridge,  and  mass  celebrated 
before  enormous  kneeling  crowds.  Bohemian  peasants 
would  flock  into  town  from  miles  and  miles  around,  in 
all  the  picturesque  finery  of  the  national  dress,  gala  per- 
formances would  be  given  at  the  theatres,  an  especial 
illumination  of  the  city  made  at  public  expense,  and 
fireworks  displayed  to-night  on  Schutzen-Insel.  It  would 
be  an  orderly  celebration,  too,  for  the  Czechs  are  more 
fond  of  dancing  than  drinking;  and  religious  enthusiasm 
would  be  practically  universal,  for  Prague,  which  for 
two  centuries  was  exclusively  Protestant,  now  num- 
bers at  least  nine  Catholics  out  of  every  ten  of  its 
people. 

As  we  look  about  us  this  afternoon   we  derive  a 


m    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

vivid  consciousness  of  being  very  far  from  home,  set 
down  in  an  environment  that  is,  for  Europe,  oddly 
foreign  and  unfamiHar.  The  soft,  sibilant  prattle  of  the 
Czechish  speech  is  heard  on  every  hand,  and  the  names 
on  cars  and  corners  are  outlandish  to  us,  with  their  pro- 
fusion of  consonants  and  curious  accent  marks  like  our 
o  and  V.  One  sees  a  great  disproportion  in  numbers  be- 
tween the  German  and  Czechish  population ;  only  thir- 
teen to  the  hundred  are  said  to  be  German,  but  in  the 
opinion  of  Bohemians  that  is  too  many,  for  the  stub- 
born struggle  for  the  existence  of  the  old  national  speech 
and  spirit  against  the  threatening  usurpation  of  the 
Teutonic  invaders  is  a  real  matter  of  life  and  death. 
As  we  watch  the  crowds  throng  along  the  bridge  the 
prevalence  of  the  Slavic  type  is  very  noticeable:  short 
of  body,  heavy  of  head,  and  with  high  cheek  bones  and 
coarse  features.  The  general  expression  is  one  of  settled 
melancholy,  bred  of  their  peculiar  fatalism.  Having 
heard  the  "Bohemian  Girl"  and  read  the  foundation- 
less  libels  of  popular  French  literature,  one  looks  about 
for  gypsies ;  he  will  be  lucky  if  he  finds  one.  Bohemia,  as 
he  should  have  known,  is  one  of  the  leading  industrial 
countries  of  Europe,  and  Prague  is  made  up  of  hard- 
working, skillful  mechanics.  Energy  and  resolution  are 
stamped  on  these  serious,  rugged  faces;  on  the  powerful 
men,  the  tall,  strong  women,  and  even  on  the  little  black- 
eyed  children.  And  they  can  do  many  worthy  things 
well:  they  market  the  country's  rich  coal  and  iron  de- 


PRAGUE  113 

posits,  make  garnets  to  perfection,  and  manufacture 
beet-sugar  by  thousands  of  tons.  Who  has  not  heard  of 
Bohemian  glass,  or  Pilsener  beer?  And  shall  we  belittle 
the  resourcefulness  of  Bohemia,  with  the  prosperous  re- 
sorts of  Karlsbad  and  Marienbad  well  within  the  western 
boundary  of  the  Bohmer  Wald?  If  this  does  not  con- 
vince, one  has  only  to  run  over  to  Dresden,  seventy-five 
miles  away,  which  he  can  reach  by  rail  in  four  hours  at  an 
outlay  of  but  eight  florins,  and  ask  any  one  where  the  fin- 
est farm  produce  comes  from  and  what  section  yields  the 
best  fruit  and  honey,  butter  and  eggs,  milk  and  cheese. 
If  now  we  can  manage  to  look  away  from  the  bridge 
and  its  crowds,  we  shall  observe  that  the  afternoon 
activities  of  the  river-life  of  Prague  are  manifold  and 
highly  interesting.  There  is  a  prodigious  bustling  about 
of  longshoremen  on  the  fine,  broad  quays,  and  boats 
of  many  descriptions  and  diversified  cargoes  are  la- 
boriously struggling  upstream  or  drifting  guardedly 
down.  From  time  to  time  huge,  unwieldy  rafts  pass 
along  to  the  din  of  vigorous  shouting  and  hysterical 
warnings.  Bathers  at  the  riverside  establishments  are 
adding  their  share  of  laughter  and  frolic,  their  diver- 
sions watched  with  vast  amusement  by  the  afternoon 
idlers  loitering  along  the  embankments.  On  our  right 
the  shaded  walks  and  trim  lawns  of  the  popular  Rudolf  s- 
Quai  are  comfortably  filled  with  a  leisurely  company 
of  promenaders  and  of  nursemaids  airing  their  charges. 
All  this  contributes  an  agreeable  note  of   homeliness 


114    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

and  contentment  and  seems  eminently  in  harmony 
with  the  prevailing  serenity  and  peace  of  the  surround- 
ing groves.  There  is  at  hand  a  little  chain  footbridge 
which  they  call  the  Kettensteg,  and  in  a  beautiful  clump 
of  lindens  at  its  end  rise  the  sculptured  porticoes  of  the 
classic  Rudolfinum,  Prague's  noble  home  of  the  arts 
and  industries.  Enter  it,  and  you  find  whole  halls  de- 
voted to  the  work  of  Bohemian  artists,  with  the  school 
of  old  Theodoric  of  Prague  represented  in  surprising 
completeness,  an  entire  cabinet  filled  with  the  engrav- 
ings of  that  famous  Praguer,  Wenzel  Hollar,  and  many 
of  the  most  beautiful  paintings  of  such  celebrated  Bo- 
hemians as  Gabriel  Max,  Vaclav  Brozik  and  Josef 
Manes. 

With  artistic  bridges  arching  the  river  in  whichever 
direction  you  look,  with  music  and  soft  voices  welling 
up  from  the  gay  islands,  and  with  a  full  and  virile  life 
at  cry  along  the  quays,  you  find  yourself  about  as  far 
removed  as  possible  from  the  atmosphere  of  Longfel- 
low's "Beleaguered  City":  — 

"Beside  the  Moldau's  rushing  stream. 
With  the  wan  moon  overhead, 
There  stood,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 
The  army  of  the  Dead." 

Assuredly,  there  is  no  "army  of  the  dead"  at  this  hour 
beside  the  Moldau,  whatever  there  may  be  under  the 
"wan  moon"  in  a  poet's  eye.  On  the  contrary,  there 
is  an  army  of  the  living,  a  quarter-million  of  them,  and 


PRAGUE  115 

it  marches  without  resting,  day  in  and  day  out,  along  the 
Graben  and  the  stately  Wenzels-Platz,  and  through  the 
venerable  Grosser  Ring  and  the  narrow,  crooked  alleys 
of  old  Josephs tadt. 

Walk  east  across  Karlsbrlicke,  pass  under  the  Gothic 
arch  of  the  somnolent  Aldstadt  Tower,  with  the  stony 
statue  of  Karl  IV  on  your  left,  and  you  will  shortly 
emerge  on  the  Grosser  Ring  and  can  settle  the  matter 
for  yourself.  This  fantastic  Ring  is  the  oldest  and  most 
famous  square  of  the  city,  still  preserving  its  ancient 
appearance.  You  find  it  an  irregular  quadrilateral, 
surrounded  by  quaint,  gloomy,  colonnaded  houses, 
churches,  and  dilapidated  palaces.  There  towers  in  its 
centre  a  sombre  memorial  column,  called  the  Marien- 
saule,  commemorating  Prague's  liberation  from  the 
Swedes  at  the  close  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War.  The  very 
first  thing  to  catch  the  eye  is  the  singular  Teynkirche  — 
the  old  Gothic  church  where  John  Huss  so  often  preached, 
where  the  astronomer  Tycho  Brahe  lies  entombed  in  red 
marble,  and  in  whose  shadows,  through  five  centuries, 
many  of  the  bloodiest  events  of  the  city  had  their  in- 
ception and  execution.  The  influence  of  Huss  on  the 
Europe  of  his  day  was  so  great  and  has  continued  so 
long  that  it  is  hard  to  realize  that  he  had  only  reached 
his  forty-sixth  year  when  the  Council  of  Constance  sent 
him  and  his  friend,  Jerome  of  Prague,  to  the  stake. 
The  old  Teynkirche,  where  he  so  often  attacked  the 
doctrines  of  Rome,  still  rears  its  battered  and  darkened 


116    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

bulk  from  behind  a  melancholy  row  of  colonnaded 
houses  and  gazes  solemnly  and  patiently  over  them  at 
the  noisy  Ring,  its  lofty  spires  curiously  clustered  with 
airy  turrets  like  hornets'  nests  on  some  old  tree.  Di- 
rectly opposite,  the  modern  Gothic  Rathaus  shoulders 
up  to  the  moldering  tower  of  its  predecessor  whose 
famous  clock  has  delighted  its  thousands  with  the  sur- 
prising things  the  automatic  figures  do  when  the  hours 
and  quarters  roll  around.  Just  at  hand,  a  portion  of  the 
old  Erkerkapelle  still  stands  in  excellent  preservation, 
and  you  could  not  find  more  beautiful  Gothic  windows 
in  all  Prague,  nor  finer  canopied  saints  nor  more  richly 
sculptured  coats  of  arms.  Before  this  building  —  a  place 
of  hideous  history  —  the  best  blood  of  the  city  was 
spilled  after  the  fall  of  Bohemian  independence  at  the 
fateful  battle  of  the  White  Hill,  three  centuries  ago, 
when  twenty-seven  nobles  were  butchered  here  on  the 
scaffold.  A  dozen  years  passed,  and  again  blood  soaked 
this  earth,  with  the  stony-hearted  Wallenstein  exe- 
cuting eleven  of  his  chief  oflBcers  for  alleged  cowardice 
at  the  battle  of  Lutzen.  Prague  still  shows  the  palace 
of  Wallenstein,  and  those  of  the  other  two  famous 
generals  of  his  period,  Gallas  and  Piccolomini.  The 
Clam-Gallas  Palace  is  just  at  hand,  in  the  Hussgasse, 
distinguished  for  its  beautiful  portal  flanked  with  colos- 
sal caryatids  and  sculptured  urns,  and  surmounted  by 
a  marble  balustrade  wrought  with  the  perfection  of  life. 
A  final  note  in  the  Old-World  charm  of  the  Grosser 


PRAGUE  117 

Ring  is  contributed  by  the  ancient  Kinsky  Palace,  ad- 
joining the  Teynkirche,  in  the  elaborate  baroque  archi- 
tecture despised  of  Mr.  Ruskin.  People  in  the  manner 
and  seeming  of  to-day  walk  and  talk,  barter  and  sell 
under  the  nodding  brows  of  these  historic  buildings,  but 
the  visitor  stands  among  them  unconscious  of  their 
noisy  presence  in  the  spell  such  storied  surroundings 
cast  on  every  phase  of  fancy  and  imagination. 

There  is  a  peculiar  fascination  about  aimless  rambles 
in  Prague.  Modern  improvements  have  come,  of  course, 
but  many  an  old  and  rare  landmark  has  been  reverently 
preserved,  with  the  result  that  you  can  scarcely  turn 
a  corner  or  cross  a  square  without  coming  face  to  face 
with  some  fantastic  and  blackened  architectural  frag- 
ment that  holds  you  spellbound  with  wonder  and  de- 
light. Whole  sections,  indeed,  are  of  such  a  character; 
as  you  would  find  were  you  to  fare  forth  from  the  Grosser 
Ring  and  seek  adventures  by  crossing  the  Kettensteg 
and  invading  the  region  beyond  the  Rudolfinum.  With 
almost  the  suddenness  of  tumbling  into  a  river  you 
would  find  yourself  groping,  even  at  this  bright  hour  of 
the  afternoon,  in  the  black  and  twisting  mazes  of  the  old 
Jewish  Ghetto  that  still  goes  by  the  name  of  Josephstadt. 
Here  you  have  at  once  all  the  detail  and  color  of  a 
romance  of  the  crusades.  Everything  appears  aged  and 
eccentric.  The  time-weary,  saddened,  ramshackle 
houses  project  their  upper  stories  feebly  and  seek  to  rest 
their  wrinkled  foreheads  on  one  another;  tortuous,  wind- 


118    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

ing  alleys  that  you  can  almost  span  with  your  out- 
stretched arms  reel  giddily  all  ways  from  a  straight  line, 
plodding  wearily  uphill  and  sliding  helplessly  down.  On 
all  sides  there  seems  to  be  a  general  feeling  that  nothing 
matters,  that  everything  comes  by  accident  or  caprice. 
Over  the  frowzy  heads  of  slovenly  children  quarreling 
in  the  doorways,  glimpses  are  to  be  had  of  dark  and  filthy 
interiors,  from  which  foul  odors  escape  to  the  street. 
Long-coated,  unkempt  patriarchs  of  Israel  lope  solemnly 
by,  with  rounded  shoulders  and  hands  clasped  behind; 
and  if  you  follow  in  their  wake  you  will  sooner  or  later 
arrive  at  a  curious,  melancholy  Rathaus  that  is  a  rare 
jumble  of  architectural  orders  and  has  an  extraordinary 
steeple  that  might  once  have  done  time  on  a  Chinese 
temple.  This  very  inclusive  structure,  persisting  in  its 
oddities  to  the  end,  makes  a  great  point  of  staring 
down  at  the  gaping  crowds  out  of  a  big  belfry  clock  that 
has  one  dial  Hebrew  and  one  Christian.  But  a  single 
marvel  is  as  nothing  in  this  old  wonderland  where,  as 
Alice  would  have  remarked,  things  become  "curiouser 
and  curiouser."  If  your  eyes  popped  at  the  Rathaus 
what  will  they  do  at  the  gaunt,  barnlike  synagogue 
next  door !  Here  is  the  thing  that  every  visitor  to  Prague 
goes  straight  to  see.  Its  early  history  is  lost  in  legends, 
but  you  will  be  disposed  to  credit  them  all  —  even  to 
that  one  about  the  Prague  Jews  fleeing  from  Jerusalem 
to  escape  the  persecutions  of  Titus  —  once  you  have 
seen  its  doleful  walls  and  breakneck  roof,  and  have 


PRAGUE  119 

passed  through  the  narrow  black  doorway  into  that 
shadowy  tomb  of  an  interior.  Brass  lamps  depend  by 
long  chains  from  the  smoky  ceiling,  but  they  only  in- 
tensify the  gloom  with  their  feeble  light  and  deepen  the 
feeling  of  creepy  depression.  Visitors  are  told  that  dur- 
ing the  horrors  of  the  Hussite  wars  this  black  hole  was 
literally  packed  with  the  bloody  corpses  of  Jews  and  that, 
in  a  bitter  spirit  of  defiance,  no  attempt  was  made  for 
three  hundred  years  to  efface  the  frightful  stains.  Little 
wonder  that  the  Prague  Jews  evolved  out  of  their  hatred 
an  ancient  malediction  that  ran:  "May  your  head  be  as 
thick  as  the  walls  of  the  Hradschin,  your  body  grow  as 
big  as  the  city  of  Prague ;  may  your  limbs  wither  away  to 
birds'  claws,  and  may  you  flee  around  the  world  for  a 
thousand  years!" 

It  is  like  escaping  from  a  sick-bed  to  come  out  of  this 
chamber  of  horrors  and  cross  the  street  to  the  quiet  and 
hush  of  the  wonderful  old  Ghetto  cemetery.  Here  we 
have  another  of  the  "  sights  "  of  the  Josephstadt.  In  the 
refreshing  coolness  of  its  elder-trees  one  looks  about  on 
as  extraordinary  a  three  acres  as  can  be  found  anywhere 
in  all  Europe.  The  Jews  insist  that  they  have  buried 
here  for  twelve  or  fourteen  hundred  years,  and  inscrip- 
tions can  be  found  that  date  back  at  least  half  that  far. 
By  the  simple  process  of  spreading  new  layers  of  earth, 
this  plot  has  been  packed  with  graves  six  deep;  and  all 
that  was  accomplished  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  the 
cemetery  not  having  been  in  use  since  the  middle  of  the 


no    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

eighteenth  century.  The  closeness  of  the  black,  mossy 
tombstones,  and  their  toppled  and  huddled  look,  suggest 
the  troubled  shouldering  of  some  gigantic,  ghoulish 
mole  at  work  deep  down  in  the  horror-crowded  darkness 
underground.  The  ancient  tribal  insignia  of  Israel  are 
found  graven  on  these  tottering  slabs,  —  the  Hands  of 
Aaron,  the  Cup  of  Levi,  the  Double  Triangle  of  David, 
the  Stag,  the  Fish,  etc.,  —  and  here  and  there  you  come 
across  those  little'piles  of  stones  heaped  on  graves  that 
mark  a  Jewish  act  of  reverence  for  the  resting-place  of 
some  long-buried  ancestor. 

Hold  to  a  generally  southern  direction  in  your  after- 
noon stroll  through  the  narrow  Ghetto  alleys,  and 
shortly  you  will  meet  with  a  fine  reward  in  the  shape  of 
a  face-to-face  contemplation  of  one  of  Prague's  most 
cherished  antiquities,  the  Pulverturm.  They  may  have 
once  stored  powder  here,  as  the  name  implies,  or  they 
may  not ;  but  almost  anything  looks  to  have  been  possi- 
ble to  this  sturdy,  brown  survivor  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
under  whose  broad  Gothic  archway  the  twentieth-cent- 
ury crowds  are  passing  day  and  night.  Set  solidly 
down  in  the  thickest  stream  of  traffic,  it  has  the  look  of 
those  unconquerable  obstructions  that  have  to  be  tun- 
neled through.  It  looms  above  you,  a  great,  dark,  dusty 
mass,  out-of-time  in  every  particularity  of  design  and 
decoration.  Stubbornness  and  defiance  are  expressed  in 
every  line;  and  with  its  atmosphere  of  drowsy  aloofness 
and  mystery  there  is  such  an  element  of   loneliness 


PRAGUE  121 

among  such  modern  surroundings  that  one  could  almost 
believe  he  sometimes  hears  the  old  veteran  sigh.  Cer- 
tainly you  would  say  it  is  brooding  over  memories  cent- 
uries dead,  so  incongruous  and  distrait  is  its  seeming, 
so  anachronous  are  its  whimsical  turrets,  fantastic  roof, 
statues,  arms,  and  sculptured  traceries.  This  impression 
of  isolation  is  enhanced  as  one  reflects  that  the  most 
ultra-modern  of  Prague's  new  buildings  all  stand  within 
easy  range,  could  one  of  the  Pulverturm's  ancient  arch- 
ers take  up  a  position  in  any  of  those  lofty  turrets  and 
wing  an  arrow  from  his  stout  crossbow  toward  what 
quarter  of  the  heavens  he  chose. 

When  you  have  passed  under  the  arch  of  the  Pulver- 
turm,  you  have  entered  the  Graben,  and  so  reached  the 
business  heart  of  the  city.  The  Graben  has  nothing  to- 
day to  suggest  the  "Ditch"  that  its  derivative  source 
implies,  unless  you  fancifully  regard  it  as  a  moat  of  the 
modern  commercial  ramparts.  On  the  contrary,  it  pre- 
sents a  busy  array  of  all  the  leading  hotels,  shops,  res- 
taurants, and  cafes.  Overhead-trolley  cars  splutter 
along  it,  and  you  see  gray  stone  buildings  of  irregular 
roof-lines  with  skylight  dormers  in  the  tiles,  and  Vene- 
tian blinds  in  the  windows,  narrow  sidewalks  decorated 
in  mosaic  designs,  and  active  throngs  of  strong-featured 
men,  and  bareheaded,  vigorous  women  whose  chief  pride 
of  dress  concerns  itself  with  capacious  aprons  elabor- 
ately embroidered.  Were  you  to  visit  the  second-story 
cafes,  whose  gay  window-boxes  look  so  inviting  from  the 


122     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

street,  you  would  find  games  of  chess  and  checkers  in 
progress  at  this  hour,  and  more  than  one  merchant  who 
had  stolen  from  his  shop  to  have  a  look  at  the  "Prager 
Tagblatt"  over  a  glass  of  Pilsener  or  *' three  fingers"  of 
the  plum  brandy  they  call  slivovitz  or  a  dram  of  tshai  — 
which  is  tea  and  rum  —  or  a  cup  of  tee  —  which  is  just 
plain  tea  and  cream.  Coffee  and  chocolate,  of  course, 
would  be  found  in  general  demand. 

One  passes  out  of  the  Graben  into  the  fine  boulevard 
of  the  Wenzelsplatz,  and  at  once  exchanges  bustle  and 
uproar  for  the  quiet  and  dignity  of  the  most  beautiful 
and  stately  avenue  of  the  city.  It  is  broad  and  well- 
paved,  with  buildings  of  elaborate  design,  with  shop 
fronts  protected  by  bright  awnings  and  with  fine  shade- 
trees  every  few  yards  along  its  entire  length.  At  the 
corner  of  the  Stadt  Park,  one  finds  a  beautiful  cascade 
fountain,  and  beside  it  a  noble  building  which  is  the 
centre  of  all  that  is  best  and  most  intense  in  the  new 
movement  for  the  reviving  and  vitalizing  of  the  national 
spirit  among  Bohemians  —  the  new  Bohemian  Museum. 
Were  you  to  enter  it  you  would  doubtless  be  astonished 
to  see  how  many  souvenirs  of  Bohemian  history  have 
already  been  assembled  there,  —  autographs  and  docu- 
ments, ancient  musical  instruments,  art  objects,  flails 
of  the  Hussites,  and  scientific  collections.  Such  is  the 
intellectual  Bohemia  of  to-day. 

From  this  pleasant  stroll  one  wends  his  way  back  to 
the  Karlsbrucke,  and  as  he  passes  the  buildings  that  still 


PRAGUE  123 

remain  of  the  ancient  famous  university,  thoughts  are 
kindled  of  the  wonderful  renown  this  institution  had, 
six  centuries  ago,  when  it  was  easily  the  foremost  educa- 
tional institution  of  the  world.  Fifteen  thousand  stud- 
ents, from  every  quarter  of  the  earth,  gathered  to  hear 
its  celebrated  savants,  and  the  revels  and  achievements 
of  those  days  have  gone  down  in  prose  and  rhyme.  Five 
thousand  students  still  attend,  two  thirds  of  them 
Czechs  and  the  others  German;  but  the  revelry  of  to- 
day is  largely  the  bitter  and  bruising  encounters  that  are 
continually  arising  between  these  conflicting  hot-heads. 
The  intellectual  impulse  is  strong  in  Prague.  It  has  poly- 
technic institutes,  art  schools,  and  learned  societies, 
and  one  of  the  most  famous  conservatories  of  music  in 
the  whole  of  Europe. 

The  west  bank  of  the  Moldau,  the  Kleinseite  district, 
was  royalty's  region  in  the  olden  time  when  Bohemian 
kings  and  queens  dwelt  in  the  huge  Hradschin  on  the 
ridge  of  the  hill.  Seen  from  the  Karlsbriicke,  toward 
five  o'clock,  the  long  slope  rises  toward  the  declining 
sun  with  many  more  suggestions,  even  now,  of  the  pomp 
and  circumstance  that  have  departed  than  of  the  mod- 
ernism that  has  taken  their  place.  There  is  a  dreary 
and  saddening  array  of  closed  and  boarded  palaces,  ar- 
caded  and  many-windowed,  whose  owners  are  rich  and 
powerful  Bohemian  nobles  with  a  preference  for  the 
gayeties  and  frivolities  of  the  court  Ufe  of  Vienna.  One 
regards  with  especial  interest  the  long,  rambling  one  of 


124    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Wallenstein,  to  make  room  for  which  one  hundred  houses 
had  to  be  torn  down,  where  this  rival  of  royalty  retired 
in  the  interval  of  imperial  disfavor  and  held  magnificent 
court  with  hundreds  of  followers  and  attendants.  Among 
the  many  chambers  of  that  great  honeycomb  was  one 
equipped  as  an  astrological  cabinet  —  for  Wallenstein 
always  had  faith  in  his  star.  How  vividly  it  recalls  the 
Schiller  dramas  and  the  operations  of  the  uncanny 
Ceni!  "Such  a  man!"  exclaims  a  character  at  the  con- 
clusion of  "  Wallensteins  Tod."  Born  a  Protestant,  he 
well-nigh  became  their  exterminator;  turned  Jesuit,  the 
Jesuits  distrusted  and  hated  him.  With  his  sword  he 
made  and  unmade  kings  and  carved  out  principalities 
for  himself  —  and  yet  he  was  but  fifty-one  years  old  at 
the  time  of  his  assassination ! 

Like  an  aged  soldier  nodding  in  his  armchair  in  the 
sun,  the  Wallenstein  Palace,  once  passion-rocked  and 
treachery -haunted,  basks  this  afternoon  in  an  atmosphere 
of  the  intensest  calm  and  peace.  To  ramble  through  it 
is  to  learn  history  from  a  participant.  One  courtyard, 
in  particular,  is  so  serene  and  lovely  as  to  be  really  un- 
forgettable. One  entire  side  of  this  enclosure  is  a  lofty, 
echoing  loggia  three  stories  high,  with  arching  spans  for 
a  roof  supported  on  graceful,  towering  columns.  Within 
the  loggia  are  heavy  sculptured  balustrades,  and  a  broad 
flight  of  marble  steps  flanked  by  huge  stone  urns  leads 
to  a  beautiful  open  space  of  soft  lawns  bordered  with 
simple  flowers.  It  was  a  favorite  resort  of  Wallenstein's, 


PRAGUE  125 

and  he  called  it  his  sala  terrina.  In  its  present  mellow 
and  half -deserted  beauty  it  is  a  place  for  a  poet  to  dream 
away  a  life  in. 

Staring  gloomily  down  on  the  Kleinseite,  and  set 
solidly  far  above  it  on  a  precipitous  hill,  the  rugged  old 
Hradschin,  Prague's  acropolis,  warms  into  mild  ruddy 
tones  in  the  afternoon  sun.  I  have  said  it  reminds  one 
of  a  barracks,  such  an  enormous,  rambling  affair  as  it  is; 
though  its  commanding  situation  and  impressive  pro- 
portions would  immediately  suggest  to  a  stranger  some 
more  consequential  employment  in  other  days.  Un- 
doubtedly it  is  the  most  striking  feature  of  Prague. 
One  might  think  it  a  solid  architectural  mass,  as  seen 
from  the  Karlsbriicke,  but  on  closer  inspection  it  resolves 
itself  into  a  series  of  separate  structures  falling  into 
irregular  groups,  but  which,  taken  together,  composed 
the  setting  of  the  imperial  court  during  the  long  period 
of  Bohemia's  independence.  That  splendid  fragment, 
the  vast  cathedral  of  St.  Vitus,  supplies  a  worthy  cen- 
trepiece; and  is  full  of  interest,  too,  with  its  rich  Gothic 
windows,  chapel  walls  set  with  precious  stones,  marble 
tombs  of  the  Bohemian  kings,  and  the  wonderful  silver 
monument  to  St.  John  Nepomuc.  Indeed,  the  whole 
Hradschin  abounds  in  rich  surprises.  Such,  for  instance, 
is  the  venerable  church  of  St.  George,  awkward  and 
archaic,  which  has  stood  for  nine  hundred  years  and  is 
the  sole  memorial  in  Bohemia  of  the  earliest  period  of 
Romanic  architecture.    Every  one,  of  course,  hurries 


126    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

to  see  the  rude  royal  palace  of  the  Hofburg,  on  the  edge 
of  an  adjacent  steep  hill,  from  the  windows  of  whose 
Kanzlei  Zimmer  the  Imperial  Councillors  were  "defen- 
estrated" and  the  Thirty  Years'  War,  in  consequence, 
precipitated  upon  the  troubled  states  of  Europe.  And 
then  there  is  the  archbishop's  palace,  across  the  quad- 
rangle from  the  Hofburg,  in  whose  courtyard  the  church 
authorities  impotently  burned  the  two  hundred  Wycliffe 
books  that  John  Huss  had  loaned  them  with  the  chal- 
lenge to  read  and,  if  they  could,  refute.  Two  grim  towers 
on  the  eastern  extremity,  the  Daliborka  and  the  Black 
Tower,  have  no  end  of  creepy  legends  of  tortures  and 
prison  horrors.  The  former  takes  its  name  from  a  roman- 
tic knight,  Dalibor,  who  is  said  to  have  been  long  con- 
fined there  and  of  whom  and  his  solacing  violin  we  hear 
at  pleasant  length  in  Smetana's  opera  of  that  name.  One 
of  the  most  curious  sights  of  the  Hradschin  is  the  low, 
drawn-out  Loretto  church,  with  a  maximum  of  frontage 
and  a  minimum  of  depth,  like  city  seminaries  for  young 
ladies.  Among  the  red  tiles  of  its  steep  roof,  giant  stone 
saints  perform  miracles  of  precarious  footing,  and  out 
of  the  centre  of  the  fagade,  on  a  base  of  colossal  spirals, 
rises  an  antique  belfry  spire  set  with  domes  and  turrets 
and  bearing  aloft  a  huge  clock  dial  like  a  burnished 
shield.  Surely,  somewhere  in  this  Hradschin-wonderland 
occurred  the  unrecounted  events  of  that  much-inter- 
rupted narrative  of  the  "King  of  Bohemia  and  his 
Seven  Castles,"  which  Trim  tried  so  hard  to  tell  to 


PRAGUE  127 

Uncle  Toby  Shandy ;  and  may  we  not  be  confident  that 
the  charming  Prince  Florizel,  whose  strange  adventures 
Stevenson  has  so  gracefully  recounted,  once  lived  and 
courted  perils  in  these  romantic  surroundings! 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  every  visitor  will  have  more 
than  one  hour  in  Prague;  and  then,  of  course,  he  will 
want  to  go  up  to  the  Hradschin  and  loiter  through  and 
about  it  at  his  leisure.  He  will  find  large  and  beautiful 
gardens  where  he  can  rest  under  noble  trees  and  enjoy  an 
inspiring  view  of  the  city  in  the  pleasant  companion- 
ship of  statuary  and  fountains.  When  he  has  exhausted 
this  viewpoint  he  can  secure  quite  another  from  the  col- 
onnaded verandas  of  the  Renaissance  Belvedere;  or, 
perhaps  better  still,  he  will  journey  out  to  the  picturesque 
Abbey  of  Strahow,  embowered  in  blooming  orchards 
that  are  vocal  with  blackbirds,  and  from  its  yellow  stuc- 
coed walls  look  down  on  the  dense  forests  of  the  Laurenz- 
berg  sweeping  in  billowy  green  to  the  very  banks  of  the 
Moldau. 

At  this  hour  a  sharp  point  of  light,  seen  from  the 
observation  tower  on  the  summit  of  the  Hasenberg, 
marks  the  location  of  a  little  white  church  on  a  distant 
hilltop  —  and  when  you  have  been  told  all  about  what 
happened  there  at  the  fatal  battle  of  the  White  Hill  you 
will  have  listened  to  the  bitterest  chapter  in  the  whole 
history  of  Bohemia  and  will  know  how  the  national  life 
of  this  kingdom  gasped  itself  out,  three  centuries  ago, 
in  the  panic  and  rout  of  the  "  Winter  King's  "ill-managed 


128     AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

soldiery  before  the  fierce  infantry  of  Bavaria.  There  fell 
the  state  won  by  the  flails  of  a  fanatical  peasantry  whose 
sonorous  war-hymn,  "Ye  Who  Are  God's  Warriors," 
had  so  often  struck  terror  into  the  ranks  of  the  finest 
armies  of  Europe.  Those  were  the  men  whom  the  furi- 
ous Ziska  led  —  Ziska,  the  squat  and  one-eyed,  the 
friend  and  avenger  of  Huss;  "John  Ziska  of  the  Chalice, 
Commander  in  the  Hope  of  God  of  the  Taborites." 
Such  was  the  terror  in  which  this  dread  chieftain  was 
held  by  his  foes  that  they  feared  him  even  after  his  death 
and  declared  that  his  skin  had  been  stretched  for  drum- 
heads to  summon  his  followers  on  to  victory. 

Since  the  battle  of  the  White  Hill  there  has  been  little 
for  Prague  in  the  way  of  war  except  sieges  and  captures ; 
and  it  has  mattered  little  to  her  whether  it  was  Maria 
Theresa  come  to  be  crowned,  or  Frederick  the  Great 
come  to  destroy,  or  the  Swedes  of  Gustavus  Adolphus 
come  to  plague  and  offend.  Suffering  has  been  her  reg- 
ular portion.  During  the  Thirty  Years'  War  alone,  Bo- 
hemia's population  declined  from  four  millions  to  fewer 
than  seven  hundred  thousand. 

The  stranger  on  the  KarlsbrUcke  will  turn  from 
thoughts  of  Ziska's  peasants  to  regard  with  increased 
interest  the  occasional  specimen  of  the  countryman  who 
strides  past  along  the  bridge  with  no  embarrassment  at 
appearing  in  the  streets  of  his  capital  in  the  costume  of  his 
nation.  Behold  him  in  his  high  boots,  tight  buff  trousers, 
well-embroidered,  blue  bolero  jacket  with  many  but- 


PRAGUE  129 

tons,  broad  lapels  and  embroidered  cuffs,  his  soft  shirt 
puffed  out  like  a  pigeon,  and  the  jaunty  Astrachan  cap 
cocked  to  one  side.  And  there,  too,  marches  his  wife; 
boots  laced  high,  bodice  bright  and  abbreviated,  petti- 
coats short  and  broad  and  covered  by  a  wide-bordered 
apron,  her  arms  bare  to  the  shoulders,  and  her  headdress 
of  white  linen  very  starchy  and  stiff.  Sometimes  one 
passes  wearing  a  hat  that  suggests  Spain,  but  he,  too,  as 
they  all  do,  wears  the  tight  trousers  and  the  close-fitting 
knee  boots.  In  time  one  learns  to  distinguish  the  Slovaks 
and  Moravians  by  their  long,  sleeveless  white  coats, 
tight  blue  trousers,  and  white  jackets  with  lapels  and 
cuffs  embroidered  in  red. 

One  hears  many  interesting  things  about  these  peas- 
ants. Throughout  the  year,  it  is  said,  they  fare  frugally 
on  black  bread  and  a  cheese  made  of  sheeps'  milk,  to 
which  is  added  an  occasional  trout  from  the  mountain 
streams.  The  great  age  some  of  them  attain  speaks 
well  for  the  diet.  Strangers  who  go  up  into  the  hills  to 
stalk  chamois  and  have  a  go  at  the  big  game  come  back 
with  surprising  stories  of  the  inherited  deference  that  is 
still  paid  in  the  country  to  caste.  They  will  tell  you  that 
the  peasant  still  kisses  the  hand  of  the  lord  of  the  soil. 
The  Praguer  thinks  highly  of  his  country  brother,  though 
he  finds  a  vast  amusement  in  observing  his  rustic  antics 
when  he  comes  to  town  on  St.  John  Nepomuc's  Day  and 
shuffles  about  the  streets,  wide-eyed  and  gaping,  after 
the  manner  of  rus  in  urhe  the  world  over. 


130    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Curious  stories  are  told  of  peasant  customs.  Christ- 
mas is  their  day  of  days,  and  preparations  for  its  proper 
observance  are  made  long  in  advance.  They  believe  it 
to  be  a  season  when  evil  spirits  are  powerless  to  injure 
and  may  even  be  made  to  aid.  When  the  great  day  ar- 
rives, the  cottages  are  scrupulously  cleaned,  fresh  straw 
laid  on  the  earthen  floor,  and  the  entire  household  as- 
sembled for  a  processional  round  of  the  outbuildings.  In 
the  course  of  this  ceremonial  parade,  beans  are  carefully 
dropped  into  cracks  and  chinks  of  the  buildings,  with 
elaborate  incantations  for  protection  against  fires. 
Bread  and  salt  are  offered  to  every  animal  on  the  place. 
The  unmarried  daughters  are  sprinkled  with  honey- 
water  to  insure  them  faithful  and  sweet-natured  hus- 
bands. The  family  drink  of  celebration  is  the  plum-dis- 
tilled slivovitz. 

What  effective  use  the  great  national  composers  of 
Bohemia  —  Smetana,  Dvorak,  and  Fibich  —  have  made 
of  the  native  melodies  and  costumes !  Smetana,  a  friend 
and  protege  of  Liszt,  —  the  master  utilizer  of  Hungarian 
folk-themes,  —  was  determined  that  Bohemia,  too, 
should  have  music  of  a  distinctively  national  character; 
and  in  his  eight  operas  and  six  symphonic  poems,  as  well 
as  in  his  beautiful  stringed  quartette,  the  "Carnival  of 
Prague,"  he  abundantly  realized  his  ambition.  There  is 
no  more  popular  opera  played  in  Prague  to-day  than  his 
"Bartered  Bride."  One  hears  a  great  deal  of  Smetana 
in  talking  with  the  people  of  this  city;  of  his  poverty  and 


PRAGUE  131 

sadness,  his  final  deafness,  and  of  how,  when  fame  at  last 
crowned  him  so  completely,  he  was  dying  in  an  asylum 
here.  Music  is  a  favorite  topic  of  conversation  in  Prague. 
A  violin  player  in  one  of  the  local  theatre  orchestras  was 
no  less  a  person  than  the  great  Dvorak,  a  pupil  of  Smet- 
ana's;  and  he,  too,  added  to  Bohemian  musical  glory 
with  his  Slavonic  rhapsodies  and  dances  and  the  splen- 
did overture  that  he  constructed  on  the  folk-melody 
"Kde  Domov  Muj."  There  was  a  sort  of  Bach-like 
foundation  for  all  these  composers  in  the  early  litanies 
of  the  talented  Bishop  of  Prague.  The  Czech  tempera- 
ment finds  its  natural  expression  in  music.  It  is  even 
insisted  that  their  most  popular  movement,  the  polka, 
was  invented  by  a  Bohemian  servant  girl. 

Certainly  there  has  been  no  lack  of  beautiful  legendary 
material  on  which  to  construct  effective  compositions. 
These  traditional  stories  are  all  full  of  sadness  and  super- 
stition, and  they  always  revolve  about  simple,  natural 
elements  —  the  rain,  the  mountains,  the  valleys,  ghosts, 
and  wild  hunters,  and,  above  all,  that  most  recurrent 
and  universal  of  themes,  love. 

Could  we  win  favor  with  some  old  Praguer  this  after- 
noon and  entice  him  into  the  sunny  corner  of  Karl  IV's 
monument  place,  beside  the  bridge,  we  should  close  out 
our  hour  with  many  a  captivating  and  romantic  story 
that  would  alone  have  made  our  visit  well  worth  while. 
Such,  for  example,  is  the  legend  of  the  "Spinning  Girl." 
Deserted  by  her  lover,  she  wove  a  wonderful  shroud 


132     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

threaded  with  moonbeams,  and  in  this  she  was  buried, 
and  by  its  magic  she  appeared  to  him  on  his  wedding 
night  and  lured  him  to  leap  to  his  death  in  the  river.  And 
there  is  the  story  of  the  "Wedding  Shirt":  A  girl  im- 
plores the  Virgin  either  to  let  her  die  or  restore  her  ab- 
sent lover  who,  unknown  to  her,  has  been  dead  some 
time.  The  Virgin  bows  from  the  holy  picture,  and  forth- 
with the  pallid  lover  appears  and  conducts  his  sweetheart 
by  a  midnight  journey  to  the  spot  where  his  body  lies 
buried.  Thereupon  ensues  a  desperate  struggle  by  fiends 
and  ghouls  to  capture  the  soul  of  the  girl,  who  is  finally 
rescued  by  the  interposition  of  the  Virgin  to  whom  in  her 
terror  she  appeals.  The  wedding  shirts  that  she  had 
brought  as  her  bridal  portion  are  found  scattered  in 
fragments  by  the  sinister  spirits  on  the  surrounding 
graves.  The  flight  of  the  maid  and  her  ghostly  lover  is 
vividly  depicted  at  length,  and  is  expressed,  in  transla- 
tion, by  such  lurid  lines  as  — 

"O'er  the  marshes  the  corpse-lights  shone. 
Ghastly  blue  they  glimmered  alone." 

One  of  the  most  romantic  of  these  legends  is  the 
"Golden  Spinning- Wheel."  A  king  loses  his  way  while 
hunting  and  stops  for  a  drink  at  a  peasant's  cottage. 
There  he  finds  a  marvelously  beautiful  girl,  to  whom  he 
eagerly  offers  himself  in  marriage.  This  girl  is  an  orphan, 
with  a  stepmother  and  stepsister  who  are  cruel  and 
jealous.    Under  pretense  of  accompanying  her  to  the 


PRAGUE  133 

king's  castle  they  lure  her  into  a  black  forest  and  slay 
her,  taking  great  pains  to  conceal  her  identity  by  remov- 
ing and  carrying  with  them  her  eyes,  hands,  and  feet. 
They  then  proceed  to  the  castle  and  the  wicked  daughter 
successfully  impersonates  the  good  one,  whom  she  closely 
resembles.  Seven  days  of  wedding  festivities  ensue,  at 
the  end  of  which  the  king  is  called  away  to  the  wars. 
In  the  mean  while  a  mysterious  hermit  —  a  heavenly 
messenger  in  disguise  —  takes  up  the  dead  body  in  the 
forest,  dispatches  his  lad  to  the  castle  and  secures  the 
eyes,  hands,  and  feet  by  bartering  for  them  a  golden 
spinning-wheel,  a  golden  distaff,  and  a  magic  whirl. 
Thus  equipped,  he  miraculously  restores  the  girl  to  life 
and  limb.  When  the  king  returns  from  the  wars  he 
invites  his  false  bride  to  spin  for  him  with  her  new  golden 
wheel,  and  forthwith  the  magic  instrument  sings  aloud 
the  whole  miserable  story.  The  furious  king  rushes  to 
the  forest,  finds  his  real  sweetheart,  and  installs  her  in 
his  castle,  while  the  murderers  are  mutilated  as  she  had 
been,  and  cast  to  the  wild  wolves. 

It  may  be  thought  that  I  have  gone  somewhat  out 
of  my  allotted  way  in  taking  such  notice  as  I  have  of 
the  superstitions,  customs,  and  music  passion  of  the 
Bohemians,  but  I  cannot  believe  that  a  satisfactory  idea 
of  Prague  can  be  had  in  this,  or  any  other  hour,  without 
some  conception  of  the  fundamental  traits  that  so  power- 
fully sway  this  people.  For  the  real  significance  of  the 
city  lies  deeper  than  its  surface-showing  of  wooded 


134     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

hillsides  sown  with  quaint  buildings  and  a  broad  blue 
river  rushing  under  many  bridges;  it  is  its  peculiar 
raciness  of  the  soil  that  underlies  the  Czech's  mad  de- 
votion to  his  capital.  Expressing,  as  only  Prague  does,  so 
much  that  is  dear  and  beautiful  to  him,  it  centres  in 
itself  the  most  burning  and  passionate  interests  of  the 
race.  Without  some  knowledge  of  this  desperate  attach- 
ment one  would  fail  utterly  to  grasp  the  force  and 
truth  of  such  a  fine  observation  as  Mr.  Arthur  Symons 
has  made  on  the  devotion  of  the  Bohemian  to  this  city: 
"He  sees  it,  as  a  man  sees  the  woman  he  loves,  with  her 
first  beauty;  and  he  loves  it,  as  a  man  loves  a  woman, 
more  for  what  she  has  suffered." 


SCHEVENINGEN 


5    P.M.   TO    6    P.M. 


SCHEVENINGEN 

5    P.M.    TO    6    P.M. 

Nurtured  in  the  salt  sadness  of  the  sea,  Scheveningen 
is  a  Whistler  nocturne.  Its  prevailing  and  distinctive 
tones  are  neutral  and  elusive.  There  are,  of  course, 
days  when  the  sun  is  as  clear  and  powerful  here  as 
elsewhere,  but  more  often  it  is  obscured;  then  the  sky 
becomes  pearly,  the  sea  opalescent,  the  shore  drab 
and  dun.  Presently  a  thin  fog  drifts  in,  or  vapors  steal 
over  the  trees  from  the  inland  marshes,  and  all  tints  are 
rapidly  neutralized  into  a  common  dimness  of  that 
vague  and  sentimental  mistland  so  dear  to  the  heart 
of  the  painter.  This  is  the  characteristic  suspended 
color  note  of  the  average  day  at  Scheveningen.  It  har- 
monizes to  perfection  with  the  sentiment  of  the  en- 
vironment and  invests  the  region  with  a  marvelous 
charm  —  peculiar,  distinctive,  and  of  the  finest  dignity. 
The  power  of  Scheveningen's  attraction,  the  force 
of  its  appeal,  lies  largely  in  its  grim  aloofness  and  self- 
sufficiency.  It  is  unsympathetic,  discouraging.  It  con- 
sistently dominates  its  visitors,  and,  indeed,  with  an 
easy  insolence  and  indifference.  Wealth  and  fashion 
may  abide  with  it  for  a  few  days,  under  tolerance,  but 


138    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

the  impression  of  the  temporary  and  migratory  char- 
acter of  their  sojourn  is  always  present.  Undistracted, 
the  fierce  and  gaunt  sea  assails  the  stark  and  surly 
shore,  and  the  grim  fishermen  stand  by  and  have  their 
toll  of  both.  Of  the  presence  of  the  strangers  they  are 
all  but  unaware.  In  a  brief  day  the  incongruous  in- 
vaders will  have  gone,  but  this  relentless  warfare  will 
continue  unabated.  All  the  way  from  Helder  to  the 
Hook  glistening  seas  will  hiss  over  the  flat  beaches, 
snarling  and  biting  at  the  shoulders  of  the  dunes.  All 
through  the  long,  bitter  winter,  without  an  instant's 
intermission,  the  struggle  will  go  on.  It  is,  consequently, 
of  the  very  heart  of  the  charm  of  the  place  that  one  has 
the  feeling  of  intruding  on  battle;  of  tolerated  propin- 
quity to  Titanic  contenders. 

Loafing  at  Scheveningen  is  the  apotheosis  of  idle- 
ness. The  strong  wind  stimulates,  the  broad  beaches 
delight,  the  solemn  sea  inspires.  To  this  must  be  added 
the  sense  of  strong  contrasts.  It  emphasizes  the  impres- 
sion of  having  dropped,  for  a  time,  out  of  the  familiar 
monotony  of  Life's  treadmill;  of  being  away  from  home; 
of  both  resting  and  recreating.  It  is  present  to  the  eyes 
in  the  eloquent  disproportion  between  the  vast  Kur- 
haus  and  the  diminutive  homes  of  the  villagers;  in  the 
incongruity  of  Parisian  finery  invading  the  savage  haunts 
of  the  gull  and  the  curlew.  In  the  novel  and  bizarre 
activities  of  the  fisher-folk,  as  in  their  theatrical  sur- 
roundings as  well,  one  finds  just  the  right  touch  of  the 


SCHEVENINGEN  139 

picturesque  and  the  unfamiliar  to  complete  the  full 
realization  of  dolce  far  niente. 

Of  the  fabled  monsters  of  the  wild  North  Sea  the 
imaginative  man  will  believe  he  sees  one  certain  survivor 
in  that  languid  sea-serpent  of  a  pier  —  the  "Jetee 
Konigin  Wilhelmina" — that  stretches  its  delicate 
length  a  quarter  mile  over  the  waves  from  off  the  drab 
sand  dunes  of  Scheveningen.  Its  pavilion-crowned 
head  snuggles  flatly  on  the  water.  In  the  afternoon  and 
evening,  when  its  orchestra  is  playing,  one  fancies  the 
monster  is  actually  singing.  At  five  o'clock,  precisely, 
we  have  its  last  drowsy  utterance  as  it  drops  off  into  a 
three-hours'  nap  —  quite  as  Fafner,  in  the  opera,  yawns 
at  Alberich  and  mutters  *'  lasst  mich  schlafen ! "  It  must 
be  admitted  it  is  a  highly  pleasing  song  he  sings,  —  a 
Waldteufel  waltz,  more  than  likely,  —  and  we  come 
in  time  to  recognize  in  it  the  closing  number  of  the 
matinee  musicale.  And  then,  like  Jonah's  captor,  he 
wearies  of  his  living  contents;  and  we  see  them  emerge 
by  hundreds,  scathless  and  unafraid,  gay  with  parasols 
and  immaculate  of  raiment,  and  pick  their  way  lei- 
surely along  his  back  until  they  have  rejoined  their 
friends  in  the  voluble  company  that  crowds  the  cafes  of 
the  Kurhaus.  In  a  moment  more  the  abandoned  mon- 
ster is  fast  asleep;  which,  by  a  familiar  association  of 
ideas,  is  a  sign  to  the  multitudes  on  the  beaches  that 
surf-bathing  ends  in  just  one  hour. 

Forthwith,  there  is  a  great  bustling  all  along  the 


140    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

shore  side  of  the  broad  boulevard  they  call  the  "Stand- 
weg."  Bathers  pick  themselves  up  regretfully  from  sun- 
baths  in  the  soft,  powdery  sand  and  trot  down  for  a  final 
dip  in  the  surf,  and  those  already  in  hasten  to  convert 
pleasure  into  work  with  increased  energy  and  enthusiasm. 
To  all  such  the  implacable  watchman  shall  come  within 
the  hour  and  beckon  them  out  with  stern  and  remorse- 
less gestures,  and  the  curious  little  wagons  they  call 
bath-cars  will  engulf  each  in  turn  and  trundle  them  up 
out  of  the  water,  while  the  nervous  old  women  who  look 
after  the  bathing-suits  will  hover  about  with  anxious 
eyes  and  lay  violent  hands  on  the  dripping  and  dis- 
carded garments. 

And  now  a  tremendous  clamor  arises  from  all  the 
little  Holland  children,  who,  from  early  morning,  have 
been  indulging  the  national  instinct  for  dike-building 
and  surrounding  their  mothers'  beach-chairs  with  sci- 
entific sand-bulwarks  against  the  imaginary  encroach- 
ments of  the  sea.  For  lo!  their  nurses  approach,  won- 
derful in  white  streamers  and  golden  head-ornaments, 
and  visions  of  the  odious  ante-prandial  toilet  rise  like 
North  Sea  fogs  in  every  youngster's  eye  until  even 
dinner  itself  appears  abhorrent.  Vagabond  jugglers 
run  through  their  final  tricks,  fold  their  carpets  and 
steal  away.  Itinerant  peddlers  redouble  their  efforts 
and  retire  disgusted  or  jubilant  as  Fortune  may  have 
bidden  or  shown  her  face.  More  than  ever  does  the 
sea  front  take  on  the  appearance  of  a  long  apiary,  with 


SCHEVENINGEN    BEACH 


SCHEVENINGEN  141 

the  hundreds  of  tall,  shrouded  beehives  of  beach-chairs 
emptying  themselves  of  their  comfortable  occupants 
and  being  bundled  by  bee-men  in  white  linen  to  safety 
for  the  night.  And  of  all  the  odd  sights  of  Scheveningen 
certainly  no  other  will  remain  longer  in  mind  than  this 
curious,  huddled  colony  of  beach-chairs.  What  a  pleas- 
ing and  cheerful  spectacle!  Thronging  the  shore  for 
quite  a  mile  they  contribute  to  the  local  picture  de- 
cidedly its  most  jolly  and  fantastic  feature.  Between 
the  beach-chairs  and  the  boulevard  there  is  a  picket  line 
of  prim  little  peaked  white  tents,  with  the  top  of  each 
precisely  matching  all  the  others  in  an  edging  of  stiff, 
woodeny  scallops;  now  that  the  flaps  are  thrown  back 
and  the  sides  rolled  up,  we  see  tables  and  chairs  inside, 
with  evidence  of  recent  and  jovial  occupancy. 

To  the  eye  of  a  man  taking  his  comfort  at  the  pretty 
little  Cafe  de  la  Plage  on  the  Kurhaus  terrace,  all  this 
bustle  and  late  afternoon  animation  is  bound  to  prove 
decidedly  diverting.  The  broad,  paved  plazas  that  lie 
like  carpets  between  him  and  the  dunes  are  steadily 
filling  with  a  considerable  proportion  of  the  thirty 
thousand  Hollanders  and  Germans  who  summer  here, 
and  acquaintances  are  exchanging  civilities  and  joining 
and  taking  leave  of  little  groups  in  a  way  to  make  the 
general  picture  a  brilliant,  restless,  and  bewildering 
interweaving  of  color.  As  the  open-air  tables  are  fill- 
ing, the  activity  of  the  waiters  approaches  hysteria,  and 
the  verandas  and  saloons  of  the  ponderous  Kurhaus 


142     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

begin  to  hum  with  the  advent  of  the  evening  guests. 
Copies  of  "  Le  Courrier  de  Scheveningue  "  pass  from  hand 
to  hand  as  the  curious  scan  the  Hsts  of  the  latest  arriv- 
als or  look  over  the  various  musical  programmes  of  the 
evening.  Out  on  the  terraces,  the  ornate  little  news- 
paper kiosks  attract  groups  of  loiterers  and  gradually 
take  on  the  character  of  social  centres,  and  as  these  com- 
panies increase,  one  thinks  of  stock  exchanges  and  the 
rallying  about  the  trading  standards.  The  matinee  at  the 
Seinpost  concludes  and  out  troops  its  audience  to  swell 
the  human  high  tide.  Bright  bits  of  color  are  afforded 
by  the  blue  uniforms  and  yellow  facings  of  Holland 
infantrymen  dotted  here  and  there  in  the  press.  It  is 
odd  to  see  the  usually  arid  and  monotonous  dunes  grow 
brilliant  with  an  artificial  blossoming  of  fashionable 
millinery,  where  by  nature  there  is  nothing  better  than 
a  scraggy  growth  of  stringy  heather,  a  little  rosemary 
and  broom,  or  the  dry  stem  of  the  "miller." 

It  is  at  this  hour,  when  "the  quiet-coloured  end  of 
evening  smiles,"  that  the  stolid  natives  array  them- 
selves and  sally  forth,  like  Delft  tiles  come  to  life,  to  the 
amused  amazement  of  the  visitors.  Your  Schevenin- 
gen  man  is  wont  to  go  about  his  duties,  during  the  day, 
flopping  vigorously  in  vivid  red  knickerbockers,  volumin- 
ous as  sails  and  quite  as  crudely  patched;  but  when  he 
makes  a  point  of  toilet  he  appears  in  gray  homespun, 
the  knickerbockers  cut  from  the  same  pattern  as  the 
red  ones,  but  there  is  a  jacket  closed  up  to  the  chin  with 


SCHEVENINGEN  143 

two  rows  of  large  buttons,  a  red  handkerchief  twisted 
about  the  neck,  a  small  cap  with  a  glazed  peak,  and,  of 
course,  the  wooden  klompen.  Such  a  display  richly  de- 
serves attention,  but  what  can  the  poor  man  expect  when 
his  wife  appears  in  her  full  regalia !  She,  too,  is  shod  with 
klompeny  —  though  you  have  to  take  that  on  faith  in 
view  of  the  dozen  or  two  of  petticoats  that  balloon 
above  them,  —  and  her  waist  is  a  gay  butterfly  of 
variegated  embroidery,  while  her  headgear  is  about  the 
most  incredible  thing  conceivable.  You  might,  at  a 
distance,  mistake  them  for  bishops  with  their  mitres 
tilted  back  at  a  rakish  angle.  Nor  is  it  always  of  the 
one  pattern.  Usually  it  is  a  sort  of  long  white  cap  of 
linen,  embroidered  at  the  edges;  and  the  wearer  adds  a 
touch  of  coquetry  in  the  shape  of  a  long  curl  hanging  at 
either  side.  But  not  infrequently  you  see  a  formidable 
contrivance  of  vastly  more  consequence;  it  consists, 
first,  of  a  skullcap  of  polished  gold  or  silver,  technically 
known  as  a  hoofdijzer,  pierced  at  the  top  for  ventila- 
tion and  cut  to  leave  room  for  the  exposure  of  the  fore- 
head, and  over  this  is  drawn  an  elaborate  cape  of  lace, 
with  gold  ornaments  of  spirals  and  squares  dangling 
over  the  ears.  This  triumph  of  millinery  never  fails  to 
elicit  cries  of  delight  from  feminine  visitors,  or  to  set 
mere  man  to  chuckling.  It  is  most  likely  to  form  a  part 
of  the  impressive  gear  of  the  nurses  from  the  provinces, 
who  have  more  money  for  such  uses  than  the  wives  of 
the  fishermen;  and  the  things  that  are  told  to  new- 


144     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

comers  as  to  the  significance  of  this  or  that  ornament 
is  the  boldest  advantage  ever  taken  of  innocent  credul- 
ity. They  undertook  to  tell  me  that  you  could  distin- 
guish between  married,  single,  and  engaged  women  by 
glancing  at  the  ornaments  —  I  wonder  if  you  can !  It 
is  said  that  parents  present  their  daughters  with  this 
headdress  on  the  day  of  their  confirmation;  and  that  it 
is  a  fine  sight  to  behold  the  array  of  them  at  kermess- 
time  with  their  wearers,  six  or  eight  abreast,  arm  in 
arm,  rushing  down  the  streets  in  the  odd  dances  peculiar 
to  those  festivals,  droning  monotonous  tunes. 

To  my  way  of  thinking  the  unflagging  industry  of 
the  Scheveningen  women  is  a  matter  of  quite  as  much 
note.  One  seldom  sees  them  without  their  knitting, 
even  when  they  are  recreating,  and  as  they  stroll  along, 
laughing  and  chatting  together,  their  fingers,  all  un- 
noticed by  them,  are  flashing  with  extraordinary  speed 
like  things  of  an  independent  volition.  Many  of  the 
women  wear  no  sleeves  and  take  great  pride  in  their 
strong,  round  arms;  and  this,  I  am  told,  is  the  case  even 
in  winter  when  they  are  cracked  and  purple  from  ex- 
posure to  the  cold. 

The  faces  of  the  elder  fisher-folk  are  studies  in  wrinkles. 
Their  eyes  are  brave  and  quizzical,  but  with  a  certain 
settled  hardness,  not  perhaps  to  be  unlooked-for  in  men 
and  women  who  come  of  a  stock  that  for  five  hundred 
years  has  forced  even  the  savage  North  Sea  to  yield 
them  a  livelihood.    They  show  next  to  nothing  of  hu- 


SCHEVENINGEN  145 

mor,  but  rather  a  stern  and  weary  hopelessness.  Strong 
faces  are  these,  hard,  weather-beaten  faces,  but  elo- 
quent of  tenacity  and  desperate  courage.  They  have 
been  called  "the  most  poetic  and  original  of  all  Hol- 
landers." They  are  grave,  dignified,  and  self-reliant; 
and  as  they  pass  you  by  they  show  their  invariable 
courtesy  in  a  bow  and  a  quiet  "Goe  'n  Dag."  One  has 
only  to  see  them  to  feel  the  propriety  and  justification 
of  the  boast  in  their  national  song :  — 

"Wilhelmus  van  Nassouwe, 
Ben  ick  van  Duijtschen  Bloedt ! " 

Fishermen  naturally  suggest  ships,  and  if  you  glance 
down  the  beach  you  will  usually  see  several  of  them 
drawn  up  to  the  edge  of  the  water,  with  the  red,  white, 
and  blue  of  Holland  at  the  masthead.  During  the  mid- 
summer season  the  fishing-fleet  is  away  on  the  cruise  for 
red  herring  off  the  coasts  of  Scotland,  but  there  are 
always  a  few  that  could  not  get  away,  and  so  we  have 
the  famous  Scheveningen  bom  on  its  native  strand. 
How  the  artists  have  delighted  in  these  lumbering,  flat- 
bottomed  tubs,  ponderous  of  mast  and  weathered  of 
sail!  Mesdag,  Maris,  Alfred  Stevens,  and  the  rest  have 
famiharized  the  world  with  this  fantastic  and  pictur- 
esque craft.  Who  would  buy  a  painting  of  Schevenin- 
gen unless  it  showed  a  bom  or  two  hauled  up  on  the 
beach.?  And  that  is  precisely  the  raison  d*  etre  of  the 
bom  —  it  can  be  hauled  up  on  the  beach.    Otherwise, 


146    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

what  should  a  Scheveningen  fisherman  do  with  a  boat, 
having  no  deep-water  harbor  at  hand  nor  anchorage 
faciHty?  There  have,  through  the  centuries,  been  many 
other  styles  of  Dutch  fishing-boats,  —  busses,  loggers, 
hookers,  sloops,  pinken,  etc.,  —  and  at  times,  when  the 
forehanded  Hollanders  have  made  away  with  the  lion's 
share  of  the  foreign  catch,  outsiders  have  lost  patience 
and  classed  them  all  as  "Dutch  toads";  but  there  have 
been  no  boms  but  Scheveningen  boms.  Nowadays  they 
have  had  to  build  them  larger  and  they  do  not  beach 
so  easily,  and  it  is  probably  only  a  matter  of  time  when 
steam  vessels  will  supplant  them  altogether;  but  when 
that  evil  hour  strikes  the  chiefest  picturesque  glory  of 
this  little  village  will  have  forever  departed. 

There  used  to  be  vast  excitement,  in  the  old  days, 
over  the  first  herring  catch  of  the  season,  and  it  was 
always  hurried  ashore  and  conveyed  to  the  king's  table 
with  no  end  of  flourish  and  punctilio.  Over  at  Vlaar- 
dingen  they  used  to  post  a  watchman  on  the  church 
tower,  and  when  he  made  out  the  first  boat  coming  in 
he  would  hoist  a  blue  flag  and  all  the  people  trooped 
joyfully  down  to  the  wharves  shouting  a  song  called 
"De  Nieuwe  Haring."  Scheveningen,  indeed,  still 
presents  one  of  its  most  picturesque  scenes  when  the 
returning  fishermen  arrive  and  their  catch  is  auctioned 
off,  down  the  beach  near  the  lighthouse,  with  much  more 
of  gusto  and  excitement  than  you  would  imagine  these 
phlegmatic  people  could  muster.  The  shrewd  Schevenin- 


SCHEVENINGEN  147 

gen  fishermen  have  learned  how  to  eke  out  the  bare 
three  hundred  florins  they  reahze  from  a  year's  fishing 
by  turning  new  tricks  in  the  way  of  rope-spinning,  sail- 
making,  ship-building,  and  curing  and  smoking  the 
herring.  The  fish  go  into  this  latter  process  as  *'steur 
haring"  and  emerge  as  "bokking"  —  if  that  means  any- 
thing to  anybody ! 

The  long-beaked  curlew  that  flashes  overhead  with 
hoarse,  raucous  news  of  the  sea  looks  down  at  this  hour 
on  pleasant  and  curious  sights  as  he  wings  his  swift  circle 
above  the  Scheveningen  neighborhood.  The  placid  vil- 
lage of  twisted  alleys,  of  innumerable  "Tabak  te  Koop" 
signs,  of  queer  little  gabled  houses  and  unpainted  fisher- 
men's huts,  has  emptied  its  good  folk  into  its  narrow 
main  street  which,  fickle  of  name,  starts  out  as  Keizer- 
Straat,  almost  immediately  becomes  Willem-Straat, 
and  within  a  moment  is  the  Oud-Weg.  Here  one  sees 
in  actual  life  the  fascinating  things  he  has  marveled 
over  in  the  canvases  of  Teniers,  Jan  Steen,  and  Gerard 
Dou,  —  good  Dutch  vrows  supper-marketing.  There 
they  go,  ballooning  along,  bargaining  and  bustling  from 
shop  to  shop,  storing  capacious  hampers  with  game  and 
cheeses,  and  every  grim  line  in  their  faces  shouts  a 
challenge  to  the  shopmen  to  best  them  by  so  much  as 
a  stuiver  if  they  can.  From  time  to  time,  quaint  little 
children  like  sturdy  Dutch  toys  escape  from  the  press 
and  clatter  off  home,  with  an  air  of  vast  responsibility, 
hugging  in  both  arms  a  brown  loaf  of  bread  a  yard  long. 


148    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

How  it  recalls  the  bright  pages  of  "Hans  Brinker";  and 
as  you  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  broad  canal  down  the 
street  it  is  natural  enough  to  speculate  upon  the  pro- 
bability of  Gretel's  winning  another  pair  of  silver  skates 
before  you  get  back  to  Scheveningen  next  summer. 

In  the  meadows  back  of  the  village  women  in  blue 
shawls  are  drying  and  mending  fishing-nets,  nor  do  they 
so  much  as  raise  their  heads  as  the  yellow,  double-decked 
tramway  car  rumbles  past  on  its  trip  to  The  Hague. 
If  all  seats  are  occupied  the  car  will  display  a  large  sign 
marked  "Vol,"  and  rattle  along  oblivious  to  appeals 
from  any  and  all  who  ask  to  get  on.  It  is  but  three 
scant  miles  to  the  beautiful  capital  of  Holland  and  the 
tramway  makes  it  in  ten  minutes  —  a  notable  conces- 
sion by  leisurely  Holland  to  the  time-saving  spirit  of  the 
age,  in  view  of  other  days  when  they  devoted  a  half- 
hour  to  making  the  same  journey  by  canal  barge.  The 
broad,  smooth  highway  that  the  yellow  car  follows  is, 
as  every  one  knows,  one  of  the  favorite  roads  of  Europe. 
As  the  curlew  looks  down,  between  five  and  six  o'clock 
of  any  bright  summer  afternoon,  he  is  sure  to  find  it 
thronged  with  handsome  equipages  and  to  see  gay  com- 
panies in  each  little  wayside  inn  that  peeps  out  from  the 
deep  shade  of  the  noble  trees.  The  desired  touch  of  the 
foreign  and  unusual  is  supplied  to  the  visitor  in  the  scores 
of  heavy  carts  drawn  by  frisking,  barking  dogs;  in  the 
ever-present  windmills  beating  the  air  with  long,  awk- 
ward arms;  and  in  dozens  of  storks  that  cock  their  wise 


SCHEVENINGEN  149 

heads  over  the  edges  of  their  nests  and  regard  the  passing 
show  with  philosophic  amusement,  patient  as  the  old 
apple- women  of  Amsterdam. 

The  Scheveningen  Bosch  is  one  of  the  most  delight- 
ful woods  imaginable.  It  is  national  property,  and  no 
private  park  could  be  more  beautifully  kept  up.  A  ball 
would  roll  with  perfect  smoothness  down  its  driveways 
of  crushed  gravel,  and  even  Ireland  would  be  taxed  to 
equal  the  vivid  greenness  of  its  lawns.  This  whole  fair 
forest  is  studded  with  villas  of  the  aristocracy  and  even 
of  royalty.  Their  wide  verandas  and  orchards  and 
flowery  lawns  move  the  most  contented  to  envy  a  Hol- 
lander the  comfort  he  takes  in  his  zomerhuis.  To  know 
the  Bosch  rightly  it  must  be  walked  through ;  and  the  more 
leisurely  and  the  oftener,  the  better.  It  is  not  only  a 
lovely  woodland  set  with  charming  homes,  but  every- 
thing a  fine  forest  should  be.  The  green  and  coppery 
beeches,  the  hardy  oaks  and  elms,  and  the  living  em- 
broidery of  bright  flowers  perfume  the  air  with  delicate 
odors;  and  the  wind  in  the  lofty  tops  makes  sweet  and 
haunting  music.  Deep  down  in  the  clear  mirror  of  the 
canals,  splotches  of  broad  leaf  shadows  lazily  float  and 
dapple  like  drowsy  fishes.  Through  the  deep  foliage 
you  catch  occasional  glimpses  of  open,  sunny  meadows, 
with  cows  contentedly  grazing;  and  you  come  to  revel 
in  every  vague  and  tranquil  sensation. 

In  the  midst  of  this  beautiful  forest,  two  centuries 
and  a  half  ago,  the  best-beloved  and  most  widely  read  of 


150    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Holland's  poets  —  the  venerable  Jacob  Cats  —  com- 
posed his  madrigals  and  moral  fables,  and  so  passed  the 
last  eight  years  of  his  eventful  career.  Rembrandt  loved 
and  painted  him,  and  a  monument  stands  to  his  memory 
in  his  native  town  of  Brouwershaven.  They  say  his  books 
are  in  every  peasants'  hut  and  his  verses  in  every  peas- 
ant's heart.  His  cottage  was  at  Zorgvliet,  a  few  steps 
from  Scheveningen,  near  where  the  Queen  Mother  now 
has  her  summer  home,  and  there  in  the  garden  of  the 
Cafe  de  la  Promenade  they  will  show  you  the  old  stone 
table  at  which  he  wrote,  with  the  hole  he  cut  in  it  for  his 
inkstand. 

Wild  game  throng  the  wooded  inner  dunes.  Partridges, 
hares,  and  rabbits  abound  in  the  underbrush,  and  the 
polder  meadows  yield  the  finest  grade  of  mallard  ducks. 
The  pines  and  firs  are  resonant  with  the  calls  of  cuckoos, 
pheasants,  and  nightingales.  Farmers  clear  patches  of 
ground  to  serve  as  finch  flats,  which  they  call  vinkie 
baans;  and  there,  in  the  autumn,  they  snare  chaflBnches 
which  they  sell  for  a  cent  apiece,  to  be  used  as  a  garnish- 
ment in  serving  other  game. 

As  you  look  out  across  the  Scheveningen  dunes  and 
watch  the  day  declining,  stirring  thoughts  come  troop- 
ing to  mind  of  the  gallant  scenes  these  bleak  shores  have 
witnessed.  Off  yonder,  two  centuries  and  a  haK  ago, 
fell  the  brave  Tromp,  hero  of  thirty-three  sea  fights. 
On  the  bridge  of  his  lofty-sterned  Brederode  he  died,  as 
every  true  warrior  longs  to  die,  in  the  foremost  thick  of 


SCHEVENINGEN  151 

the  fray.  "I  am  done;  but  keep  up  a  good  heart,"  were 
his  last  words  as  they  carried  him  into  his  cabin.  Next 
day  they  brought  his  body  to  these  shores  and  bore  it 
away  to  he  in  the  old  gray  church  at  Delft  beside  the 
revered  William  the  Silent.  **The  bravest  are  the  ten- 
derest,"  and  his  war-hardened  sailors  were  not  ashamed 
to  weep  as  heartily  for  him  as  the  little  children,  fifty 
years  before,  had  wept  in  the  streets  for  the  great  William. 
Half  a  dozen  years  later  a  shouting  multitude  thronged 
this  beach  and  waved  a  hon  voyage  to  Charles  II  of  Eng- 
land as  he  sailed  homeward  to  his  recovered  throne,  to 
restore  a  licentious  court  and  renew  such  royal  revels 
as  had  already  cost  England  a  revolution.  Another 
dozen  years  roll  around,  and  Scheveningen  looks  on 
while  the  fleets  of  France  and  England  are  battered  to 
wreckage  by  the  cannon  of  Holland's  pet  hero,  the  in- 
trepid De  Ruyter.  A  century  or  so  more,  and  once  again 
this  village  is  the  storm  centre  of  Holland's  hopes  and 
fears  as  William  Frederick  I  eludes  the  pursuing  French 
troops  and  a  little  Scheveningen  fishing-smack  bears  the 
whole  royal  family  away  in  safety  to  Germany.  And 
when  he  came  back  in  triumph,  twenty  years  later,  it 
was  at  Scheveningen  that  he  landed,  and  at  the  very 
spot  where  yonder  gray  obelisk  now  stands  in  com- 
memoration. 

And  now  through  chilly  mists  the  sun,  a  vast  bloated 
orange,  settles  down  into  the  glowing  wastes  of  the  de- 
solate North  Sea.    The  roaring  surf  spreads  glittering 


152    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

carpets  far  up  the  beach.  It  has  suddenly  become  a 
region  of  placid  power  and  glory,  something  quite  other 
than  the  fabled  home  of  monsters  and  terrors,  of  temp- 
est and  shipwreck.  That  vessel  in  the  offing,  with  the 
black  hull  and  the  crimson  sails,  may  be  the  very  Flying 
Dutchman's  own;  but  still  you  would  like  to  be  on  it 
and  so  much  nearer  the  sinking  sun.  The  sky  is  astound- 
ing; like  a  glorified  Holland !  There  you  see  cloud-islands 
more  wonderful  than  Walcheren;  gray  wastes  that 
beggar  the  Zuyder  Zee;  sky  dunes  that  stretch  beyond 
Helder  or  the  Hook;  meadows  more  gorgeous  than  the 
tulip  fields  of  Haarlem;  celestial  flora  more  pure  and  pal- 
pitating than  any  fairest,  faintest  bloom  in  any  rarest, 
dimmest  glade  throughout  the  whole  woodland  of  The 
Hague.  It  is  Holland  in  excelsis. 


BERLIN 


6    P.M.    TO    7    P.M, 


BERLIN 

6    P.M.    TO    7    P.M. 

While  the  sun  is  still  sinking  behind  the  Potsdam  hills 
that  victorious  old  Fighting  Fritz  loved  so  well,  and  the 
hero  himself,  astride  his  bronze  charger,  in  cloak  and 
cocked  hat  in  the  statue  group  on  the  Linden,  seems  rid- 
ing slowly  home  to  his  neighboring  palace  with  the  length- 
ening shadows,  the  vast  industrial  army  of  the  German 
capital  issues  in  myriad  units  from  its  individual  bar- 
racks and  debouches  on  the  spacious  squares  and  broad 
avenues  in  quest  of  the  evening's  diversions.  It  is  the 
lull  hour.  The  long,  hard  day's  work  over,  the  amuse- 
ments of  the  night  are  shortly  to  begin.  In  this  pleasant 
interval  the  bustling,  aggressive  city  seems  pervaded 
with  a  spirit  of  relaxation,  and  no  more  opportune 
moment  presents  for  catching  the  Berliner  off  his  guard 
and  really  seeing  him  as  his  intimates  know  him. 

This  man,  it  should  be  borne  in  mind,  is  a  type  unto 
himself.  The  light-hearted  Rhinelander,  the  solemn 
Bavarian,  and  the  plodding,  self-reliant  Saxon  are  only 
half-brothers  to  the  energetic,  systematic,  masterful 
Prussian  whose  most  boisterous  and  irrepressible  devel- 
opment is  the  Berliner.   He  plays  as  hard  as  he  works, 


156    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

yielding  to  none  in  the  thoroughness  of  either.  He  has  a 
strong  individuality,  but  with  something  of  coarseness 
in  feeling.  He  is  enormously  self-assertive,  indefatig- 
able, and  patient,  but  scratch  through  his  veneer  of  cul- 
ture and  you  find  a  basis  that  is  rude  and  often  boorish. 
His  optimism  is  sublime  and  his  spirits  correspondingly 
high.  At  work  he  is  engrossed  and  determined,  but  when 
it  is  laid  aside  for  the  day  he  enters  as  eagerly  upon  his 
pastimes;  and  it  is  then  one  finds  him  witty  and  merry 
to  a  degree,  but,  at  times,  with  the  loudness  and  ostent- 
ation of  a  mischievous,  unruly  schoolboy.  He  is  the  sort 
of  man  that  has  a  great  time  in  zoological  gardens,  and 
goes  picnicking  in  his  best  clothes.  Intellectually,  he  is 
still  as  Buckle  described  him  in  the  "History  of  CiviHza- 
tion  in  Europe,"  the  foremost  man  in  the  world  when  he 
is  a  scholar  and  the  most  ordinary  in  the  main.  Euro- 
peans dub  him  "a  practical  hedonist";  in  America  we 
should  refer  to  him  as  "rough  and  ready." 

As  soon  as  supper  is  over  these  joyous  and  virile  people 
display  their  primitive  scorn  of  roofs  and  flock  into  the 
open  for  fun  and  frolic;  yet  supper,  itself,  has  been  one 
of  Gargantuan  proportions  at  which  an  observer,  recall- 
ing Rabelais,  might  well  have  trembled  for  palmers  in 
the  cabbage.  From  the  four  quarters  they  gather  in 
force  to  hang  about  the  fountains  in  the  roomy  squares 
or  loaf  on  the  Linden  benches  until  the  call  of  the  con- 
cert-hall or  the  comfortable,  tree-shaded  beer-garden 
allures  to  those  bibulous  indulgences  that  old  Tacitus, 


BERLIN  157 

eighteen  centuries  ago,  noted  as  peculiarly  their  own. 
For  silent  now  are  the  forges  and  furnaces  of  Spandau, 
the  clothing  Fabriks  of  the  northeast  suburbs,  the  facto- 
ries of  the  east  end,  and  all  the  skilled  industries  of  the 
south.  The  artist  colony  of  Moabit  may  no  longer  com- 
plain of  drilling  regiments,  and  the  mammoth  business 
blocks  they  call  Hoje  have  swelled  the  throng  of  clerks 
on  Friedrich  and  Leipziger  Strassen.  All  have  supped; 
and  merchant  and  laborer  fare  forth  en  famille  to  take 
the  evening  air. 

With  what  heartiness  and  placidity  does  this  multi- 
tude enjoy  its  ease !  It  is  a  trick  your  highstrung  peoples 
beyond  the  borders  can  never  get  the  hang  of.  It  calms 
one  merely  to  look  on  at  the  contentment  and  satisfac- 
tion with  which  they  stroll  slowly  and  merrily  along, 
chattering  animatedly  in  their  deep  guttural  speech,  and 
greeting  friends  with  punctilious  bows  and  infinite  hat- 
raisings.  With  every  other  word  they  "bend  their  backs 
and  they  bow  their  heads,"  like  the  celebrated  character 
of  "  Dorothy."  There  is  an  agreeable  absence  of  rush  and 
hurry.  Ponderous  and  massive,  but  with  an  erectness 
bred  of  military  training,  they  wear  their  sombre,  loose- 
fitting  clothes  with  palpable  relish,  for  comfort  and  in- 
conspicuousness  are  virtues  of  price  with  the  Teuton. 
The  stately  gnddige  Frau  treads  heavily  in  rustling  silk, 
the  mincing  Frdulein  favors  ribbons  and  flounces,  and 
mein  Sohn  is  dapper  in  a  tight  suit,  lavender  gloves,  and 
the  indispensable  little  cane.    Chaperons,  of  course, 


158    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

abound;  for  if  a  young  man  were  to  walk  abroad  alone 
with  an  unmarried  girl  in  Berlin  he  would  be  consigning 
her  at  once  to  a  plane  with  the  painted  nymphe  de  pave. 

The  surroundings  are  animated.  Motor-cars  roll 
sedately  along  with  the  least  din  possible  and  with 
scrupulous  regard  for  speed  limits,  and  a  prodigious  as- 
sortment of  cheap  and  comfortable  Droschke  cabs  hovers 
expectantly  about  with  their  drivers  decked  out  in  long 
coats  and  patent-leather  hats.  From  time  to  time  an 
officer  in  brilliant  uniform  or  a  diplomat  in  severe  black, 
with  a  row  of  orders  across  his  breast,  posts  past  hur- 
riedly to  dine  out  in  formal  state;  and  with  knowledge 
of  the  terrifying  discomfort  of  a  German  social  function 
comes  confidence  that  most  of  them  look  from  their  smart 
broughams  with  profound  envy  at  the  jovial,  care-free 
crowds  that  are  so  boisterously  happy  along  the  way. 

The  visitor,  who  is  struggling  with  an  uncomfortable 
suspicion  that  he  may  be  missing  something  in  the  other 
two  rings  of  the  circus,  might  do  well  to  climb  the  Kreuz- 
berg  and  take  the  whole  show  in  like  a  map.  He  has 
probably  already  learned  that  although  the  city  lies 
prostrate  on  a  level  sandy  plain  as  guiltless  of  a  hill  as  a 
billiard  table,  yet  the  indomitable  Berliner  has  repaired 
this  oversight  of  nature  by  himself  building  a  fine  little 
mountain  at  a  convenient  spot  due  south.  That  is  one 
of  the  advantages  in  rearing  your  own  hills  —  you  can 
have  them  where  you  want  them. 

In  the  sullen  red  of  the  dying  day  one  beholds  from 


BERLIN  159 

the  battlements  of  the  Kreuzberg*s  Gothic  tower  a 
monster  plain,  twenty-five  miles  in  an  irregular  circle, 
smothered  in  house-tops,  and  barred  and  seamed  with 
an  intricate  entanglement  of  carefully  made  streets.  He 
sees  parks  and  squares  in  surprising  profusion,  and  an 
abundance  of  foliage  in  spite  of  the  sand ;  and  there  is  a 
sluggish  river  winding  a  serpentine  course,  a  Ringbahn 
encircling  the  suburbs,  an  elevated  road  that  dives 
underground  and  becomes  a  subway,  and  surface  lines 
without  number.  One  could  fancy  a  great  cross  iij  the 
centre  of  the  city,  whose  upright  is  the  long  Friedrich- 
strasse  and  whose  broad  crosspiece  is  the  splendid  Unter 
den  Linden.  The  last  rays  of  the  sun  gild  the  roofs  and 
spires  of  each  of  the  "town  districts,"  which  the  Prus- 
sian Diet  has  recently  merged  into  a  Greater  Berlin  of 
four  million  souls  —  Wilmersdorf,  whose  *' millionaire 
peasants"  became  rich  overnight  by  selling  their  lands 
to  speculators;  Charlottenburg  the  Pampered,  that  has 
increased  tenfold  in  thirty  years;  Rixdorf  the  Prosperous; 
and  Schoneberg  the  Renowned^ which  is  well  worth  a 
sentimental  journey  to  the  graves  of  the  Brothers  Grimm 
under  the  cypresses  of  St.  Matthew's  Cemetery,  if  only 
out  of  gratitude  for  the  familiar  versions  of  "  Cinderella," 
"Tom  Thumb,"  "Little  Red  Riding  Hood,"  and  so 
many  others  of  our  childhood's  companions.  The  sunset 
glory  falls  where  glory  is  due  —  on  a  region  at  our  feet 
of  ancient  martial  fame;  the  little  village  that  the 
Knights  Templar  held  for  centuries,  and  the  broad 


160    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE^ 

Tempelhofer  Feld,  —  Prussian  drill-ground  for  two  hun- 
dred years,  —  whither  all  Berliners  turn  holiday -faces 
when  the  Kaiser  reviews  the  Guards  in  spring  and 
autumn,  and  journey  cockishly  homeward  when  the  show 
is  over,  "snapping  their  fingers  at  the  foeman's  taunts.'* 

In  every  section  that  the  Kreuzberg  looks  down  upon, 
and  still  farther  away  under  the  fading  western  skies, 
pleasant  signs  of  recreation  abound.  The  Linden  over- 
flows, the  lesser  streets  are  swollen  streams,  and  every 
open  square  is  a  ruffled  lake  of  leisurely  humanity.  A 
strong  tide  of  loiterers  sets  through  the  most  popular  of 
Berlin's  breathing-places  —  the  stately  Tiergarten  — 
and  ripples  there  about  the  bases  of  statues  and  monu- 
ments, the  marble  settles  of  the  Sieges-Allee,  and  the 
sculptured  benches  of  the  Anlagen  of  the  Brandenburg 
Gate.  There  is  the  usual  deep  eddy  before  the  graceful 
statue  of  the  adored  Queen  Louise,  which  is  half -buried 
in  flowers  by  a  grateful  people  every  March  10.  The 
bridle-paths  teem  with  lines  of  aristocratic  riders,  with 
possibly  the  Kaiser  himself  among  them.  Indeed,  no 
other  part  of  the  city  may  compare  with  the  Tiergarten 
at  this  hour,  so  beautiful  is  it  in  turf  and  tree  and  so 
delightful  in  heavy  fragrance.  No  wonder  that  Berliners 
have  so  long  regarded  it  as  the  best  last  glimpse  of  life  — 
to  fight  duels  in  by  dawn  in  other  days,  and  to  take  their 
own  lives  in  now. 

All  Berlin  is  now  out  of  doors.  The  millionaires  of  the 
exclusive  Tiergarten  purlieus  are  cooling  themselves  in 


tiH'§ 


BERLIN,    UNTER    DEN    LINDEN 


BERLIN  161 

their  villa  gardens,  and  the  middle-class  man  is  beaming 
at  the  band  at  the  Zoo,  where  the  restaurant-terraces 
are  overflowing  into  the  flowered  walks  among  the  trees. 
There  is  a  boisterous  coterie  of  shouting  children  to 
every  prim  fountain  in  the  prim  squares.  Out  under 
the  pines  and  cypresses  of  Grunewald  crowds  returning 
from  the  races  are  gazing  admiringly  at  the  pretty  white 
villas  that  rim  the  verges  of  the  placid  forest  lakes;  and 
others  are  turning  aside  for  the  spectacular  amusements 
of  Luna  Park.  At  Steglitz  the  bicycle  races  are  ending 
and  merrymakers  are  swarming  into  the  Botanic  Gar- 
dens to  marvel  over  the  cacti  and  palms  of  the  long  hot- 
houses. Capital  boating  is  in  progress  on  the  Spree,  and 
sailing  at  Wannsee,  and  steamer  trips  all  through  the 
suburbs.  Bands  are  crashing  in  the  noisy  penny-shows 
of  the  tumultuous  Zeltern;  they  are  having  beer  in 
crowded  Weinhandlungen^  chocolate  at  dainty  Condi- 
toreien,  and  much  besides  in  the  jolly  Vienna  cafes  that 
open  out  invitingly  to  the  street.  In  every  part  of  the 
city  rise  music  and  laughter  and  the  sound  of  early 
revelry  in  pretty,  tree-shaded  summer  gardens.  It  is 
an  audible  expression  of  the  Berliners'  joy  of  living  — 
their  cherished  Lebensfreude. 

Could  we  rise  with  Zeppelin  we  should  find  it  the  same 
now  at  Charlottenburg,  and  over  at  Potsdam.  Charlot- 
tenburg  the  Prosperous  is  having  its  serene  and  digni- 
fied companies  sauntering  in  quiet  evening  talk  along 
the  broad,  handsome  streets.  The  gay  are  at  the  lively 


162    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Orangerie,  the  philosophic  in  the  trim,  pert  little  parks, 
and  the  sentimental  among  the  flaming  roses  and  frag- 
rant trellises  of  the  charming  Palace  Garden.  In  solemn 
and  conscious  superiority  the  great  Technical  High 
School  and  famed  Reichanstalt  shroud  their  learned 
cornices  in  the  gloaming  of  tree-tops,  and  that  chiefest 
mecca  of  all,  the  royal  mausoleum,  embowers  its  gleam- 
ing marble  walls  in  heavy  shrubbery  at  the  bottom  of  its 
avenue  of  pines.  No  loiterer,  you  may  be  sure,  but 
thinks  reverently  of  the  recumbent  snowy  eflSgies  of  the 
dead  rulers  that  lie  in  the  hushed  gloom  of  that  dim 
interior. 

Potsdam,  Germany's  Versailles,  steeped  in  the  melan- 
choly beauties  of  the  Havelland  pine  forests,  redolent 
of  old  Frederick  the  Great  and  his  dream  of  an  earthly 
Sans  Souci,  thinks  nothing  of  drawing  Berliners  twenty 
miles  to  its  twilight  peace  and  calm.  Exuberance  temp- 
ers to  the  dignity  and  beauty  of  those  parks  and  pal- 
aces where  the  Kaiser  has  his  favorite  royal  seat.  Up 
the  broad  Hauptweg  they  stroll  by  hundreds  and  gladden 
their  patriotic  eyes  with  the  colonnades,  porticoes,  and 
statues  of  the  vast  New  Palace  that  proved  to  the  foes 
of  defiant  old  Fritz  that  the  sturdy  warrior  was  far  from 
bankrupt  despite  the  Seven  Years'  War.  Nor  do  they 
forget  that  it  was  here  the  late  emperor,  beloved  "Unser 
Fritz,"  learned  how 

"unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square." 


BERLIN  163 

The  classic  Town  Palace  of  Potsdam  is  receiving  its 
compliments,  as  usual,  and  no  less  the  artistic  Lustgar- 
ten,  opulent  in  marbles  and  fountains;  and  many  will  be 
wandering  even  out  to  the  cool  and  spacious  park  that 
lies  about  the  charming  Babelsberg  Chateau.  But  old 
Frederick  remains  the  local  hero,  and  there  is  sure  to  be 
a  crowd  at  the  venerable  lime-tree  where  petitioners 
used  to  stand  to  catch  the  eye  of  the  king,  and  a  kind  of 
procession  will  be  passing  reverently  before  the  garrison 
church,  where  lie  his  remains  in  the  vault  before  which 
Napoleon  outdid  himself  in  eulogy  the  while  he  pilfered 
the  old  warrior's  sword.  And  the  leaping  column  of  the 
Great  Fountain  will  be  the  centre  of  an  admiring  throng, 
and  scores  will  be  going  up  and  down  the  vista  of  broad 
stairs  and  fruited  terraces  that  lead  to  the  long,  low 
palace  of  Sans  Souci.  As  to  the  latter,  a  stranger  might 
be  pardoned  if  he  were  to  mistake  it  for  a  casino,  which  it 
strikingly  resembles,  with  its  flat-domed  entrance,  line 
of  caryatids  like  pedestal  busts,  and  the  row  of  stone  urns 
on  the  balustraded  top  of  the  fagade.  At  this  hour  there 
is  no  admission,  but  one  may  peer  through  the  low 
French  windows  atid,  in  fancy,  people  Voltaire's  room 
with  a  miserly  ghost  of  the  crafty  old  philosopher,  see 
him  fraternizing  and  quarreling  with  the  king,  imagine 
a  royal  soiree  in  progress  with  Frederick  playing  skill- 
fully on  the  flute,  recall  the  brilliant  talk  of  the  Roimd 
Table,  and  think  with  pity  of  the  cheerless,  childless  old 
soldier  toiling  wearily  on  those  histories  that  Macaulay 


164  AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

praised,  and  winding  his  big  clock,  and  yearning  all 
the  while  to  lie  buried  among  his  dogs  out  on  the  ter- 
race. To  many  will  come  visions  wrought  from  the  ex- 
travagant fiction  of  Luise  Muhlbach.  What  moral  observ- 
ations and  theatrical  posings  fell  to  poor  Frederick's  lot 
in  her  "Berlin  and  Sans  Souci,"  sandwiched  in  among 
the  woeful  loves  of  Amelia  and  Baron  Trenck  and  of 
the  dancer  Barbarina  and  the  High  Chancellor's  son! 
But  perhaps  such  literature  helps  one  to  understand  the 
application  to  Frederick  of  the  celebrated  characteriza- 
tion of  a  very  different  personage,  the  '*  wisest,  greatest, 
meanest  of  mankind." 

In  Berlin  proper  there  are  two  fine  squares  that  best 
serve  the  well-advised  as  start-and-finish  places  for  the 
most  interesting  evening  walk  to  be  had  in  the  city 
—  the  Lustgarten  before  the  Royal  Palace  and  the 
Konigs-Platz  at  the  Tiergarten  corner.  By  this  notable 
route  one  arrives,  within  the  smoking  of  two  cigars,  at 
something  like  an  intelligent  comprehension  of  Berlin 
and  Berliners. 

The  gracious  expanse  of  the  Lustgarten  is  so  appealing 
in  the  melancholy  light  of  sunset  that  one  almost  feels, 
at  the  very  beginning  of  the  stroll,  like  going  no  farther 
for  fear  of  faring  worse,  but  rather  remaining  where  he  is 
among  the  trees  and  fountains  and  artistic  shrubbery 
and  watching  the  children  playing  Hashekater  around 
the  colossal  Granite  Basin,  or  Ringer-Ringer-Rosa  at  the 
marble  stairs  of  Frederick  William's  lofty  statue.   Soft 


BERLIN  165 

splashes  of  deep  colors  warm  the  long  rows  of  blinking 
windows  in  the  Royal  Palace  on  the  left,  and  flush  the 
domes  of  the  cathedral  and  the  columns  of  the  Old  Mus- 
eum's Ionic  portico.  Hundreds  of  Berliners  are  idling 
along  the  asphalt  walks  that  entice  to  the  Palace  Bridge 
that  arches  the  Spree  in  a  double  line  of  marble  groups 
and  so  opens  up  the  long,  tree-shaded  perspective  of 
the  Linden.  To  see  it  at  this  hour  one  would  not  guess 
that  this  fair  Lustgarten  had  once  been  a  neglected 
palace-close  and  even  a  dusty  drill-ground ;  no  more  than 
one  could  believe  that  the  occasional  decrepit  church 
or  twisting,  narrow  street  in  the  district  in  the  rear  is  all 
that  marks  antiquity  in  the  whole  of  the  city.  For  the 
furious  tempo  of  Berlin's  development  has  swept  every- 
thing before  it.  Three  out  of  every  four  buildings,  all 
over  town,  are  garishly  modern.  Indeed,  it  is  all  so 
utterly  of  the  present  moment  that  It  is  hard  to  believe 
that  even  a  group  of  fishermen's  huts  could  have  stood 
here  beside  the  Spree  so  long  as  seven  hundred  years 
ago.  Were  one  to  see  no  more  of  Germany  than  its 
capital  he  might  very  easily  imagine  a  Chicago  or  two 
somewhere  in  the  empire,  but  certainly  not  a  Nurem- 
berg. 

Sunset  imparts  an  air  of  cordiality  to  the  ponderous, 
baroque,  seven-hundred-roomed  Royal  Palace,  whose 
four  stories  of  regular  window  lines  suggest  an  ornate 
and  elaborate  factory  that  had  been  diverted  from  its 
original  purpose  by  the  addition  of  the  chapel  dome  on 


166    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

the  west  wing.  However,  for  those  who  cross  its  low 
terrace  and  enter  the  sculptured  portals  there  awaits  a 
revelation  of  pomp  and  majesty,  of  throne-room  splend- 
ors and  saloon  magnificence,  that  rivals  the  best  of 
Versailles  and  Vienna.  Unhappily  we  cannot  here  see 
the  windows  of  the  royal  family's  apartments,  for  they 
are  on  the  second  floor  of  the  opposite  wing;  whence  the 
Kaiser  looks  out  on  the  Neptune  fountain  of  the  Schloss- 
Platz  and  the  elaborate  fagade  of  the  royal  stables 
when  the  purple  banner  that  denotes  his  presence  flies 
from  the  palace  standard.  ^ 

In  the  gloaming  the  high  portico  columns,  "Lion 
Killer,"  "Amazon,"  and  shadowy  sculptured  groups  of 
the  vestibule  of  the  classic  Old  Museum  gleam  through 
the  dark  branches  of  the  trees  with  charming  grace  and 
effectiveness.  Not  all  the  imposing  galleries  on  Museum 
Island,  just  beyond,  can  displace  this  well-beloved  old 
temple  of  the  arts  in  the  affectionate  regard  of  Berliners. 
The  commanding  Dom,  or  cathedral,  dominates  the 
Lustgarten  and  all  the  city  besides,  but  in  the  modest 
and  inoffensive  manner  that  is  becoming  in  an  archi- 
tectural debutante  of  only  six  seasons  —  though  that  is 
quite  long  enough  for  a  building  to  become  passe  in 
Berlin.  Its  granite  walls,  copper  domes,  high -vaulted 
portals,  elaborately  carved  cornices,  and  profusion  of 
statuary  stand  out  in  beautiful  relief  against  the  dark- 
ness of  the  trees  beyond. 

At  this  hour  the  sturdy,  besculptured  Palace  Bridge 


BERLIN  167 

is  thronged  with  loiterers  leaning  over  the  broad  balus- 
trades to  admire  the  festoons  of  lichen  on  the  opposite 
masonry  embankment  or  gaze  down  into  the  languid 
blue  Spree.  These  waters  have  journeyed  wearily  all 
the  way  from  distant  Saxony,  and  with  little  enough 
to  delight  them  along  the  road,  excepting,  perhaps,  the 
scenes  of  the  romantic  and  picturesque  forest  —  Venice 
of  Spreewald,  where  the  strange  Wendish  people  in 
outlandish  garb  pole  flat  market-barges  through  the 
labyrinth  of  canals  and  jabber  to  each  other  in  a  foreign 
tongue.  Even  on  reaching  the  capital,  the  career  of  the 
Spree  continues  uneventful  and  dejected;  and  shortly 
after  clearing  the  city  it  gives  up  in  discouragement  and 
empties  itself  into  the  Havel  at  Spandau.  One  finds  a 
pleasant  evening-life  along  its  masonry  banks,  however, 
in  spite  of  the  personal  indifference  of  the  stream  itself, 
and  sometimes  even  of  a  brisk  and  important  nature, 
thanks  to  the  shipping  from  the  canals.  Beside  these 
urban  embankments  one  sees,  here  and  there,  a  narrow 
sidewalk  between  the  wall  and  the  houses  that  instantly 
recalls  the  delightful  little  rivas  along  the  Venice  canals. 
It  is  interesting  to  watch  the  swift,  pert  little  steamers 
that  dash  up  and  down  the  stream  and  to  take  note  of 
the  air  of  bravado  with  which  they  plunge  under  the 
low  bridges.  Then,  there  are  the  soldiers  washing  their 
linen  service  uniforms  on  floating  docks.  But  best  of  all 
are  the  canal  boats.  These  invariably  have  a  fat  woman 
at  the  tiller  and  an  excited  dog  dancing  from  end  to  end, 


168    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

while  a  sturdy  husband  propels  a  snail-like  passage  by 
means  of  a  long  pole  which  he  sets  to  his  shoulder  like  a 
crutch  and  inserts  the  other  end  into  niches  in  the  walls 
and  so  plods  the  entire  length  of  the  deck,  with  the  boat 
advancing  slowly  under  his  feet. 

Entering  Unter  den  Linden  from  the  Schloss-Brucke, 
the  imposing  array  of  splendid  public  buildings  on 
either  hand  of  the  expanding  vista  suggests  the  middle 
of  the  street  as  the  only  adequate  viewpoint  —  and 
the  majority  take  it,  in  the  evening.  The  visitor  is 
bound  speedily  to  conclude  that,  unless  it  be  Vienna, 
no  European  city  can  boast  a  more  beautiful  or  impres- 
sive double  line  of  structures.  They  have  dignity  and 
solidity  in  appearance,  richness  and  taste  in  decoration, 
and  spaces  to  stand  in  of  princely  proportions.  The 
agreeable  effect  of  shade  trees  has  been  freely  made  use 
of,  and  on  all  sides  one  sees  that  profusion  of  sculpture 
and  statuary  in  which  Berlin  is  as  rich  as  London,  for 
example,  is  poor.  As  if  impressed  with  such  surround- 
ings, the  evening  crowds  move  along  slowly  and  observ- 
antly, looking  up  admiringly  at  the  dark  gray  fronts  — 
the  statue-set  fagade  of  the  Arsenal,  the  stately  palaces 
of  Crown  Prince  and  Crown  Princess,  the  Opera  House, 
the  rococo  Royal  Library,  and  the  palace  of  old  Emperor 
William  I,  from  whose  famous  corner  window  the  con- 
queror of  Sedan  used  to  look  out  affectionately  on  the 
street  life  of  his  people.  With  no  less  of  satisfaction  must 
the  old  emperor  have  looked  over  the  heads  of  the  crowds 


BERLIN  169 

at  the  University  across  the  way  —  the  proper  toast  of 
all  Germany.  One  notes  its  open  square  and  wide  triple 
story  and  thinks  of  the  ripe  scholarship  suggested  by  the 
surrounding  statues  of  its  savants,  Helmholtz,  Momm- 
sen,  Treitschke,  and  the  great  William  and  Alexander 
von  Humboldt,  whose  ashes  lie  out  at  Tegel  under  Thor- 
waldsen's  beautiful  "Hope."  Here  six  hundred  teach- 
ers and  ten  thousand  students  work  in  the  inspiring 
memory  of  such  masters  as  these,  and  of  such  others  as 
Fichte  and  Hegel  and  Schelling.  From  contemplations 
over  the  intellectual  achievements  of  Prussia  one  turns 
to  martial  glory  in  the  form  of  Ranch's  immortal 
equestrian  statue  of  Frederick  the  Great,  about  which 
the  crowds  are  now  swarming,  and  observes  the  hero's 
head  cocked  in  characteristic  defiance  and  his  hand 
lightly  resting  on  the  hilt  of  his  ready  sword.  Berliners 
make  great  ado  in  studying  and  identifying  the  num- 
erous eminent  men  of  that  period  whose'  reliefs  are 
exquisitely  executed  on  the  four  sides  of  the  lofty 
pedestal. 

And  now  we  pass  under  the  limes  and  chestnuts  of  the 
five-streeted  Linden,  keeping  to  the  broad  gravel  prome- 
nade in  the  centre  where  the  children  play  all  day  and 
their  parents  fill  the  benches  half  the  night.  On  its  outer 
streets  one  may  see  the  finest  hotels,  theatres,  cafes, 
and  shops  of  the  city.  It  is  amusing  to  watch  the  people 
at  this  hour,  in  settling  their  arrangements  for  the 
evening,  cluster  about  the  poster  pillars  that  they  call 


170     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

''Litfassaulen,"  and  the  newspaper  kiosks,  scanning 
announcements  and  theatre  bills.  Familiar  to  them,  but 
suggestive  to  a  stranger,  are  the  iron  standards  at  im- 
portant street  intersections  supporting  placards  of  the 
red  cross  of  the  hospital  boards  to  indicate  the  loca- 
tions of  emergency  surgeons,  who  are  always  on  the 
spot.  You  may  rest  on  a  Linden  bench  a  moment,  if  you 
like,  but  expect  thrifty  Berlin  to  tax  you  for  it;  and  read 
carefully  the  conspicuous  placards,  so  redolent  of  this 
systematic  city,  to  learn  just  where  you  may  sit;  for 
some  are  "reserved  for  women,"  some  for  *' nurses  with 
children,"  others  for  *' adults,"  and  what  remain  for 
mere  "men." 

But  the  well-advised  will  break  the  walk  when  they 
reach  the  corner  of  Friedrichstrasse  for  a  few  minutes  of 
refreshments  at  the  celebrated  Cafe  Bauer,  where  open 
house  is  held  for  all  the  world,  and  where  you  may  take 
your  ease  under  the  frescoes  of  Anton  Werner,  or,  at  a 
balcony  table,  look  down  on  the  cosmopolitan  conges- 
tion of  the  streets  and  observe  ladies  having  ices  across 
the  way  at  Kranzler's  after  the  fatigue  of  shopping  at 
Tietz's  or  Wertheim's. 

The  animated  scenes  of  the  Cafe  Bauer  are  those  of 
busy  restaurants  the  world  over,  with  the  possible  dif- 
ference that  Berliners  make  more  of  cafe  life  than  many 
others,  as  being  an  institution  essential  to  temperaments 
that  crave  social  diversion,  simple  enjoyment  and  friend- 
liness.  So  we  hear  much  laughter  and  find  the  air  vital 


BERLIN  171 

with  the  vociferous  rumbhng  thunder  of  this  deep- 
lunged  speech,  and  with  continual  explosions  of  *'So!" 
and  "Ach!"  and  "Ja  wohl!"  and  "Bitte!"  and  "Ent- 
schuldigen!"  and  "  Wunderschon ! "  and,  expecially, 
"Prosit!"  There  is  an  incessant  clamoring  for  waiters 
by  handclaps  and  shouts  of  "Kellner!"  to  which  those 
distracted  functionaries  respond  with  "  Augenblick ! "  — 
"in  a  wink  of  the  eye,'*  —  and  dash  off  in  haste,  to  re- 
turn at  leisure.  The  gold  that  falls  in  Trinkgeld  passes 
belief;  but  tipping  is  like  breathing  all  over  Berlin. 
It  is  said  that  the  head  waiters  pay  handsomely  for 
the  positions.  You  will  see  few  people  in  the  Cafe 
Bauer  uncompanioned,  for  sociability  is  a  national 
characteristic.  The  man  in  the  corner  reading  the 
"Fliegende  Blatter"  or  "Illustrirte  Zeitung"  or  any 
other  of  the  eleven  thousand  publications  of  the  city 
will  shortly  be  joined  by  some  friend  for  whom  he  is 
waiting  and  raise  his  voice  in  the  general  "Prosit!" 
chorus.  Should  you  address  the  waiter  in  English,  you 
will  be  answered  at  once  in  that  language;  as  you  would, 
for  that  matter,  in  any  Berlin  business  house.  The 
formality  on  every  hand,  the  bowing  and  eternal  thank- 
ing, is  of  the  Berliner  Berlinesque.  It  is  a  trick  that  is 
soon  picked  up,  and  it  is  no  time  at  all  before  you  can 
enter  a  store  with  the  best  of  them,  remove  your  hat 
and  wish  the  clerk  "  Mahlzeit,"  remain  uncovered  until 
your  purchase  is  made,  again  bow  and  say  "Mahlzeit," 
replace  your  hat,  and  go  about  your  business. 


172    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

From  a  balcony  table  at  the  Bauer  you  may  study, 
as  you  elect,  the  diners  within  or  the  crowds  without.  If 
it  be  the  latter,  you  doubtless  observe  at  once  the  exten- 
sive presence  of  the  military  element  that  so  preemi- 
nently dominates  the  empire.  There  goes  a  stiff -backed, 
narrow-waisted,  tight-coated  officer  jangling  his  sword 
and  fussing  at  his  gloves.  His  chin  is  tilted  at  a  super- 
cilious angle  and  his  mustachios  are  trained  to  look 
fierce,  like  the  Kaiser's.  As  he  approaches  a  brother 
officer  he  begins  a  salute  a  quarter-block  away  and  keeps 
it  up  as  far  again  after  passing.  He  would  perish  before 
he  would  unbend  in  public  to  give  the  most  unofficial 
of  winks  at  the  pretty,  barearmed  nursemaid  who  is 
tripping  demurely  by,  and  yet  it  is  whispered  that  in 
private  "Die  Wacht  am  Rhein"  is  not  the  only  song 
he  knows.  And  lo,  the  humble  man  of  the  ranks,  — 
facetiously  dubbed  "Sandhase,"  —  who  is  saluting  and 
"goose-stepping"  to  some  superior  or  other  the  greater 
part  of  the  time.  You  perceive  him  now  to  be  roaming 
about  with  evident  relish;  and  a  familiar  bit  of  local  color 
is  the  dark  blue  tunic  and  gray  trousers  and  the  brass- 
bedecked  leather  helmet  with  its  Pickelhaube  top  spike. 
You  learn  to  distinguish  the  corps,  in  time,  by  the  color 
of  the  shoulder  knots. 

Parenthetically,  it  will  be  remembered  that  these 
husky  fellows  are  paid  just  nine  cents  a  day,  and  out  of 
that  go  two  and  a  half  cents  for  dinner.  Their  only  free 
rations  are  coffee  and  the  famous  black  bread.    They 


BERLIN  173 

carry  their  "cash  balance"  suspended  about  the  neck 
in  a  bag,  and  any  time  an  officer  wishes  to  make  sure 
the  "sand-rabbit"  has  not  been  squandering  his  money 
too  fast,  he  opens  the  bag  at  morning  inspection  and 
examines  the  contents.  Pay  is  small,  all  the  way  up; 
a  second  lieutenant,  with  heavy  and  unavoidable 
social  obligations,  receives  twenty  dollars  a  month  — 
like  an  American  sergeant.  Higher  officers  must  live  in 
town  and  keep  their  horses.  "Marry  money  "  becomes 
the  first  requirement  of  the  "silent  manual."  But 
Germany's  exposed  borders  must  be  lined  with  bayonets, 
and  she  has  not  forgotten  that  the  French  war  cost  her 
a  hundred  thousand  men  in  killed  and  wounded;  so 
she  maintains  an  army  of  a  peace-footing  strength  of 
six  hundred  thousand,  at  a  cost  of  $175,000,000  a  year. 
The  "Defenders  of  the  Fatherland"  become,  inconse- 
quence, the  pets  of  the  court  and  the  social  arbiters  of 
the  empire. 

On  leaving  the  Bauer  it  is  amusing  to  dip  for  a  few 
moments  into  the  tumult  of  rip-roaring  Friedrichstrasse 
and  sweep  along  with  merchants,  government  clerks, 
shop  girls,  artists,  soldiers,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  jovial, 
motley  company.  Out  in  the  middle  of  the  street  stu- 
dents go  rushing  by,  boisterously  inviting  trouble  and 
waving  their  hats  and  the  husky  bludgeons  they  call 
canes.  Conveyances  of  all  descriptions  are  coming 
and  going  —  Droschken,  stages,  double-decked  omni- 
buses, motor-cars,  et  al.     The    corner    of  Leipziger- 


174    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

strasse  is  a  whirlpool  through  which  traflSc  moves  like 
so  much  drifting  pack-ice.  Trolley  cars  pass  gingerly 
by  to  come  to  a  stop  at  the  iron  posts  marked  "Halte- 
stellen."  One  notes  that  the  little  *'  isles  of  safety  "  in  the 
middle  of  the  street  have  each  its  representative  of  the 
omnipresent  police,  dressed  up  like  major-generals  in 
military  long  coats  and  nickel-pointed  helmets.  They 
could  tell  you  that  Leipzigerstrasse  is  just  as  crowded 
all  the  way  to  the  tumultuous  Potsdam  Gate,  where  on 
each  sharp  corner  of  the  five  radiating  streets  ponderous 
hotels  project  into  the  maelstrom  like  pieces  of  toast 
on  spits.  I  say  the  policemen  could  tell  you  that,  if 
they  wanted  to,  but  the  probability  is  they  would  only 
wave  excited  hands  and  shout  "Verboten!" 

And  that  makes  you  realize  that  about  everything 
you  want  to  do  in  Berlin  is  forbidden  for  some  reason 
or  other.  No  yarn  of  the  Mormons  ever  conveyed  an 
idea  of  such  perpetual,  unwinking  vigilance  as  is  second 
nature  to  this  police  force.  Soon  after  arriving  you 
become  uncomfortably  conscious  of  being  secretly  and 
unremittingly  watched,  but  while  this  rankles  for  a 
while  you  eventually  become  acclimated,  as  it  were, 
and  pass  into  a  hardened  stage  of  moral  irresponsibility 
where  you  are  scrupulously  circumspect  and  not  a  little 
sly.  Since  the  police  have  elected  to  play  the  role  of  your 
conscience  you  determine  to  go  about  without  one,  like 
Peter  Schlemihl  and  his  shadow,  in  the  balmy  confidence 
that  whatever  you  are  up  to  must  be  all  right  or  the 


BERLIN  175 

authorities  would  have  notified  you  that  it  was  "ver- 
boten"  and  had  you  up  at  headquarters  for  one  of  those 
myriad  fines  that  range  from  two  cents  up. 

Parenthetically,  again,  it  is  the  people's  fault.  They 
are  government-mad;  intoxicated  with  bureaucracy. 
Not  for  all  the  gold  reserve  at  Spandau  would  they  abate 
one  jot  of  this  supervision.  There  is  a  law  for  everything. 
Some  one  has  said  that  for  every  pfennig  the  German 
pays  in  taxes  he  expects  and  receives  a  pfennig's  worth 
of  government.  You  see  it  on  every  hand.  Each  bus 
and  car  is  placarded  to  announce  its  exact  seating  cap- 
acity, as  well  as  the  precise  amount  of  standing-room 
on  the  platforms;  once  that  space  is  occupied  it  would 
not  stop  for  you,  though  you  go  on  your  knees.  Have 
you  ever  taken  notice  of  the  little  metallic  racks  at  each 
end  of  a  Berlin  street  car.?  That  is  where  you  leave  the 
cigar  you  may  be  smoking  when  you  enter;  putting 
it  anywhere  else  is  absolutely  "verboten."  It  is  the 
spirit  of  the  time.  Berlin  is  a  "  touch -the-button"  town 
—  a  machine-made  community  of  deadly  rote  and  rule. 
System  is  the  thing.  Street  numbers  have  arrows  indi- 
cating which  way  they  run;  letter  boxes  are  cleared  every 
fifteen  minutes;  a  letter  goes  by  the  pneumatic  Rohrpost 
with  the'speed  of  a  telegram;  packages  are  sent  by  the 
parcel  delivery  more  quickly  and  more  cheaply  than  by 
express;  hotels  have  electric  elevators  and  vacuum 
cleaning.  It  is  so  all  over  Germany.  Who  ever  sees  a 
picture  of  Dlisseldorf,  these  days,  without  a  Zeppelin 


176    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

airship  in  the  background  ?  How  eloquent  it  is  of  the 
thoroughness  of  this  people  whose  boastful  *'Made  in 
Germany  "  is  expressive  of  the  rankest  materialism,  that 
their  warlike  capital  should  be  distinguished  for  the 
quality  and  quantity  of  its  artistic  feeling,  and  excel,  be- 
sides, in  usefulness,  as  exemplified  in  scores  of  museums 
that  are  admittedly  the  most  instructive  of  any  in  the 
world. 

As  the  last  of  daylight  disappears,  Friedrichstrasse's 
shops  blaze  out  brilliantly  in  every  guise  of  electric- 
ity, the  present  pet  scientific  rage.  The  window 
dressings  are  highly  attractive,  but  seldom  the  interiors 
behind  them.  Americans  are  finding  home  products  in 
the  kodak  and  sewing-machine  stores,  in  penny-in-the- 
slot  establishments,  and  at  alleged  American  soda- 
fountains  and  bars  —  all  displayed  for  sale  in  business 
buildings  that  are  better  built  than  the  battlements 
of  Jericho.  People  need  not  go  out  of  a  single  block  on 
Friedrichstrasse  to  secure  every  comfort  they  require, 
for  in  so  small  a  space  one  finds  fashionable  hotels, 
hotels  garnis,  pensions ,  or  the  exemplary  hospices  af- 
fected by  ladies  traveling  alone;  where  also  you  may 
dine  at  establishments  to  suit  your  purse  —  at  extrava- 
gant cost,  or  on  the  lightest  of  repasts  at  a  Conditorei, 
or  on  a  heavy  seven-course  dinner  at  a  popular  restau- 
rant for  twenty  cents,  with  a  glass  of  beer  in  the  bargain. 
One  finds  the  dance  halls  largely  supported  by  for- 
eigners and  tourists,  of  which  latter  America  sends  fully 


BERLIN  177 

forty  thousand  annually.  It  is  also  speedily  apparent 
that  the  undertow  of  the  feverish  stream  brings  its 
wreckage  to  the  surface,  where  the  rouged  cheek  and 
carmined  lip  betray  the  presence  of  fiercer  kinds  of 
*' questing  bestes"  than  ever  were  recorded  in  the 
"Morted'Arthur." 

Out  again  under  the  rustling  trees  of  the  Linden  one 
strolls  on  in  increasing  delight.  In  the  growing  zest  of  the 
evening  the  prosperous  crowds  toss  pfennigs  to  the  beg- 
ging old  "Linden  Angels"  and  patronize  the  flower- 
venders  and  newsboys.  Of  the  Linden's  fivefold  boule- 
vard, the  outer  streets  are  rumbling  with  heavy  wagons 
and  cabs,  the  drive  with  carriages,  the  bridle-path  is 
lively  with  belated  riders  and  the  broad  middle  promen- 
ade is  overflowing  with  pedestrians.  Good  Americans, 
on  passing  the  United  States  Embassy  headquarters,  at 
the  corner  of  Schadowstrasse,  raise  their  hats  in  a  sud- 
den welling  of  patriotic  reverence,  and  very  likely  with  a 
wistful  sympathy  for  the  keimweh  that  must  frequently 
oppress  the  two  thousand  members  of  the  American 
colony  that  tarry  in  the  pleasant  environs  of  Victoria 
Louise  Platz.  Diplomats  are  coming  and  going  on  aris- 
tocratic Wilhelmstrasse,  which  sweeps  southward  at  this 
point,  and  where  the  lights  are  beginning  to  sparkle 
before  the  double  line  of  government  department 
buildings,  royal  palaces,  and  foreign  embassy  houses. 
The  famous  palace  of  mellow  gray  stone,  in  which  the 
Iron  Chancellor  lived  and  held  court  like  a  king  in  the 


178    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

heyday  of  his  power,  shrouds  itself  proudly  in  the  deep 
green  of  its  garden  of  thick  shrubbery. 

But  all  this  fails  to  hold  the  stroller's  attention  when 
he  glances  about  and  sees  he  is  at  the  end  of  the  Linden 
and  that  a  dozen  steps  will  carry  him  to  a  sudden  widen- 
ing into  stately  Pariser-Platz,  at  the  bottom  of  which, 
flanked  by  fountained  lateral  lawns  and  light-flecked  in 
the  twilight  blur,  rises  one  of  Berlin's  chiefest  features  — 
the  famed  Brandenburg  Gate.  When  the  Berlin  exile  is 
homesick  this  is  the  picture  he  always  sees —  the  impos- 
ing five- arched  gateway,  creamy  against  the  misty  deep 
green  of  the  Tiergarten  tree-tops,  the  dignified  fronts  of 
surrounding  embassy  houses,  flowered  grass  plots  on 
either  hand,  leaping  fountains,  the  long  lines  of  the  trees 
of  the  Linden,  and  through  the  gateway -portals  glimpses 
of  colonnades  and  white  statues  in  the  cool,  dusky 
allees  of  the  park. 

It  is  an  inspiring  spot.  The  classic  grace  of  Greece  is 
present  in  the  gate  itself,  —  a  copy  of  the  Athenian 
Propylsea,  —  and  the  eventualities  of  warfare  are  sug- 
gested in  Schadow's  bronze  Quadriga  above  it,  which 
the  envious  Napoleon  carried  off  to  his  Paris.  These  old 
trees  of  the  Linden  know  much  of  the  turning  of  the 
wheel  of  fortune ;  they  shook  to  the  tread  of  the  conquer- 
ing legions  of  Napoleon  the  Great,  after  Jena,  when 
Queen  Louise  and  her  little  ten-year-old  son  fled  in  want 
and  humiliation;  but  they  also  rocked,  threescore  and 
five  years  later,  to  the  shouting  of  the  armies  of  a  united 


BERLIN  179 

and  triumphant  Germany  when  that  same  little  boy, 
become  Emperor  William  I,  returned  from  the  annihil- 
ation of  Napoleon  the  Little. 

Any  German  student,  adequately  inspired,  will  tell  the 
legend  of  the  Quadriga;  how  the  Goddess  of  Victory 
each  New  Year's  Eve  drives  her  chariot  and  four  up  the 
Linden,  pays  her  respects  to  Frederick  the  Great  on  his 
bronze  horse  and  is  back  in  her  place  by  1  a.m.  And  that 
is  the  night,  by  the  way,  that  the  Great  Elector  rides  his 
charger  all  over  the  city,  taking  note  of  the  year's 
changes,  and  returns  to  his  position  on  the  Kurf iirsten 
Brucke  before  the  stroke  of  one.  Out  of  the  same  Nibe- 
lungen  Land  comes  the  legend  of  the  White  Lady  that 
goes  moaning  through  the  Royal  Palace  when  a  Hohen- 
zollern  is  about  to  die.  Now  we  are  on  Berlin  traditions, 
it  maybe  said'that  there  is  more  agreeable  flesh  and  blood 
to  the  custom  of  receiving  bouquets  from  the  witches  of 
the  Blocksberg  on  Walpurgis  Nacht  (May  1),  and  an 
altogether  human  foundation  for  the  ancient  torch 
dances  at  Hohenzollern  weddings,  of  which  Carlyle  has 
given  so  enthusiastic  a  description. 

Beyond  the  gate,  we  face  a  beautiful  picture.  The 
sweeping  arc  of  the  Anlagen,  rimmed  with  marble 
benches,  balustrades,  and  statues,  is  spirited  with  pleas- 
ure seekers,  and  its  thick  lines  of  lights  are  all  glowing 
brightly,  and  carriages  and  cabs  are  speeding  noiselessly 
across  it.  An  attractive  dilemma  presents,  as  to  whether 
we  choose  to  reach  the  adjoining  Konigs-Platz  by  the 


180    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

embowered  and  vernal  Path  of  Peace  —  the  tree-arched 
Friedens-Allee  through  this  corner  of  the  Tiergarten  — 
or  by  the  celebrated  War- Way  —  the  Sieges-AUee  — 
between  the  double  lines  of  the  thirty-two  marble  groups 
portraying  the  rulers  of  the  House  of  Brandenburg. 
There  are  advantages  to  either;  the  first  is  shorter  and 
supremely  sylvan,  but  the  second  presents  an  opportun- 
ity of  settling  for  one's  self  the  violent  difference  of 
opinion  as  to  the  artistic  merits  of  this  elaborate  gift  of 
the  Kaiser  to  his  capital.  Each  of  the  groups  of  the  latter 
has  a  heroic  statue  of  a  Prussian  ruler  half  encircled  by  a 
marble  bench  whose  ends  are  Hermes  busts  of  eminent 
men  of  that  period.  We  are  entitled  to  an  opinion. 
Some  pronounce  it  incomparable;  others  think  it  pomp- 
ous and  insipid,  and  very  much  like  a  stone  cutter's  yard. 
In  either  event  one  soon  reaches  the  Konigs-Platz,  and 
beholds  envisioned  the  power  and  glory  of  the  Father- 
land. At  no  hour  does  it  appear  to  such  advantage  as  at 
twilight.  The  dusky  shadows  lie  heavy  about  the  great 
circular  field  of  trees  and  shrubbery,  shrouding  the  sculp- 
tured mass  of  the  vast  Reichstag  building  until  its  huge 
glass  dome  looms  like  a  colossal  moon  in  a  lake  of  emer- 
ald. Bismarck  and  Von  Moltke  rise  above  their  statue- 
groups  like  demigods  of  bronze,  and  the  lofty  Column 
of  Victory,  studded  with  captured  cannon,  rears  its 
brisk  and  lightly-poised  angel  to  acclaim  the  glories  of 
Germany  to  an  invisible  world  among  the  skies.  Kroll's 
neighboring  summer  garden  is  gay  in  hundreds  of  col- 


BERLIN  181 

ored  lights  that  glow  in  the  grass  plots  and  dim  arbors 
and  hang  like  pendent  fruit  from  the  branches  of  the 
trees.  The  dusk  deepens  into  gloom,  and  twilight  plays 
Whistler-tricks  with  fountain  spray  and  statue.  Distant 
domes  pass,  in  night  wizardry,  for  ghostly  war-tents  of 
Von  Moltke.  Faint  vapors  steal  among  the  trees  of  the 
lower  levels,  and  the  dark  of  dim  retreats  is  deeper  for 
the  brilhance  of  groups  of  lights  that  fade  surrounding 
foliage  into  shades  of  pale  olive.  Music  drifts  softly  over 
from  Kroll's,  and  the  subdued  hum  of  engulfing  Berlin 
conveys  a  pleasant  sense  of  companionship  and  a  feeling 
of  admiration  and  affection. 

In  the  vivid  appreciation  of  all  we  have  just  been  see- 
ing, one  thinks  in  amazement,  What  a  people !  Harvey- 
ized  against  everything  but  progress,  they  are  bending 
their  tremendous  energy  to  the  enormous  task  of  trans- 
forming Berlin  from  the  capital  of  a  kingdom  into  the 
capital  of  an  empire.  To  see  what  they  are  accomplish- 
ing is  to  whip  one's  wastrel  forces  and  holystone  his  resol- 
ution. Here  is  energy  and  power  of  a  kind  to  move 
mountains.  Foreign  critics  bite  their  nails  in  envy  and 
decry  Berlin  as  "a  parvenu  among  capitals";  they  say 
it  lacks  distinction,  is  solemnly  conscious  of  its  new 
dignity,  is  "big  without  being  cosmopolitan,  and  im- 
posing without  being  impressive."  That  it  is  garishly 
modern  is  true  enough,  as  in  the  light  of  its  sudden 
apotheosis  it  could  not  have  otherwise  been,  and  its  own 
people  are  first  to  admit  frequent  grave  errors  in  artistic 


182    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

taste.  But  taken  all  in  all,  a  fairer,  more  substantial  or 
more  worthy  city  has  never  before  been  reared  in  the 
same  length  of  time  in  the  history  of  mankind.  Nor  is 
the  end  yet.  The  soaring  impetus  of  the  capital  waxes 
with  its  own  effort;  gathers  strength  with  each  fresh 
achievement.  Germany  may  be  pardoned  for  taking 
pride  in  having  risen  as  a  world  power  to  the  very  van  of 
the  nations,  with  her  war-lord  one  of  the  foremost  figures 
of  the  era.  That  his  capital  is  his  special  pride  is  well 
known,  and  there  are  many  who  feel  that  he  has  gone  far 
to  realizing  his  expressed  determination  to  make  Berlin 
the  most  beautiful  city  of  Europe. 

One  rests  in  the  Konigs-Platz,  at  the  foot  of  Bis- 
marck's statue,  and  regards  with  wonder  the  stern  fea- 
tures of  that  man  of  "blood  and  iron,"  to  whose  pre- 
science and  indomitable  resolution  these  vast  results  are 
so  largely  due.  The  best  of  Bismarck  is  not  dead,  but 
lives  and  increases  in  the  activities  of  his  countrymen. 
As  was  said  of  another,  "Would  you  see  his  monument, 
look  about  you."  The  destiny  Germany  is  working  out 
is  the  one  he  bequeathed  her;  all  this  fair  fruition  is  the 
flower  of  his  seeding.  The  Kaiser  may  continue  his  idol- 
atry of  his  grandfather  by  sowing  the  empire  with  statues 
of  the  war  emperor,  but  the  people  do  not  for  a  moment 
forget  that  the  man  who  previsioned  and  compelled  these 
results  was  he  at  the  feet  of  whose  grim  statue  we  un- 
cover in  deep  respect  in  the  evening  calm  of  the  Konigs- 
Platz.  The  hand  was  the  hand  of  Bismarck. 


LONDON 


7    P.M.    TO    8    P.M. 


LONDON 

7    P.M.    TO    8   P.M^ 

It  will  probably  have  seemed  to  many  that  in  London 
the  evening  hour  between  seven  and  eight  o'clock  is  the 
most  distinctive  and  significant  of  the  twenty-four,  the 
one  that  is  most  expressive  of  the  city's  real  life  and 
character.  It  has  something  in  its  mellowness  and  re- 
pose that  stimulates  in  the  spectator  a  subtle  receptive- 
ness  and  quickens  a  special  sensitiveness  to  the  trooping 
impressions  of  this  manifold,  multi-faceted  community. 
One  comes  nearest  then  to  truly  "sensing"  colossal, 
world-weary,  indomitable  London,  as  she  relaxes  a 
gracious  hour  to  catch  breath  in  the  turmoil  and  struggle 
that  has  endured  for  more  than  a  dozen  centuries.  For 
quite  the  same  reason  as  you  would  not  say  that  the 
ocean  is  most  characteristic  in  either  calm  or  storm,  but 
rather  when  rolling  in  long  and  steady  swells,  so  Lon- 
don is  not  so  much  her  real  self  at  her  most  vacant  hour 
of  sunrise  when  the  milk  carts  clatter  where  the  omni- 
buses usually  are  and  the  street  lights  turn  as  wan  and 
sickly  as  the  tramps  on  the  benches,  nor  yet  at  the  height 
of  her  turbulence  when  busy  men  are  dashing  hatless 
about  Cheapside  and  loaded  drays  are  delayed  for  hours 


186    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

in  traflBc  blocks,  but  rather  in  the  agreeable  period  of 
early  evening  "let-up"  while  truce  is  effective  between 
the  working-hours  of  day  and  the  playing-hours  of 
night. 

Of  course,  "let-up"  is  meant  in  a  comparative  sense 
only,  for  in  the  bright  lexicon  of  London  there  is  properly 
no  such  word;  but  there  comes  at  seven  o'clock  at  least 
as  much  of  a  lull  as  is  ever  to  be  looked  for  here.  The 
savage  roar  of  the  streets  is  dulled  to  a  deep  growl,  the 
crowds  become  shuffling  and  idle  and  their  relative 
depletion  and  the  proportionate  activity  and  congestion 
in  restaurants,  pensions,  and  hotel  dining-rooms  are 
eloquent  of  the  fact  that  the  great  city  is  now  engaged  in 
solemn  rites  before  the  Roast  Beef  of  Old  England.  Nor 
does  the  altered  complexion  of  things  come  amiss  to  the 
distracted  foreign  visitors  who,  though  at  odds  in  every- 
thing else,  are  of  one  opinion  in  this,  that,  without  reser- 
vation on  the  part  of  humor,  during  the  greater  part  of 
the  day  they  cannot  see  London  for  the  people.  By  that 
they  mean  that  the  life  of  the  streets  is  so  intense  and  so 
varied  that  it  proves  a  serious  distraction  from  taking 
adequate  note  of  the  appearance  and  significance  of  the 
city  itself.  It  is,  therefore,  with  profound  satisfaction 
that  they  welcome  an  hour  in  which  they  may  devote  a 
portion  of  their  energy  to  something  more  edifying  than 
jostling  pedestrians  or  escaping  sudden  and  sordid  de- 
struction by  motor-car,  hansom,  or  bus.  It  is  now  that 
the  town  throws  off  the  yoke  of  its  drivers  and  the  very 


LONDON  187 

buildings  become  instinct  with  individuality  and  char- 
acter. Every  little  dim  and  noiseless  square,  each  broad 
and  lordly  park,  the  massive  mansions  of  the  great  whose 
names  have  been  in  history  for  ages,  business  blocks  of 
Old-World  charm  to  which  trade  seems  the  merest 
incident,  blackened  pavements  and  Wren's  slender 
steeples,  every  memory-haunted  nook  and  corner,  all 
wrought  by  smoke  and  fog  to  a  blood-brotherhood  of 
neutral  tones,  are  joining  the  song  Father  Thames  is 
singing  of  dignity,  power,  and  grandeur,  —  all  breathe 
the  common  exultation  of  being  London.  It  is  more  than 
Self -Assertion.  It  is  Apotheosis ! 

If  this  may  seem  an  extravagant  idea  to  some,  it  is 
certain  there  can  be  but  one  mind  as  to  the  relief  that 
comes  with  the  "let-up."  It  gives  a  man  a  chance  to 
find  himself  after  being  lost  and  daunted  and  disheartened 
all  day,  and  to  square  off  and  give  the  giant  a  good  look 
between  the  eyes  and  happily  attain  to  some  just  impres- 
sion. ''Some  just  impression"  is  doubtless  within  the 
possibilities,  but  any  complete  one  is  not.  London  is 
so  vast  in  territory,  interests,  activities,  and  history  — 
such  a  "monstrous  tuberosity  of  civilized  life,"  as  Car- 
lyle  observed  —  that  it  effectually  defies  comprehen- 
sion. It  cannot  be  taken  in.  Look  south  on  it  from  Horn- 
sey  or  Primrose  Hill,  or  west  on  it  from  Blackwell  or  the 
Greenwich  Observatory,  or  east  from  the  top  of  the  opera 
house  at  Hammersmith,  or  north  from  Crystal  Palace, 
and  you  may  see  a  vast  prairie  of  house-tops  and  sharp. 


188    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

aspiring  steeples  and  irregular,  twisting  streets,  but  you 
also  observe  quite  the  same  kind  of  prairies  rolling  away 
under  the  horizon  beyond  your  ken.  If  one  were  to  try 
such  an  experiment  right  at  the  heart  of  things,  futility 
would  still  be  obvious,  for  either  the  Victoria  Tower  of 
Parliament  or  the  slightly  higher  dome  of  St.  Paul's  lifts 
you  only  four  hundred  feet  above  the  pavement  to  hang 
like  a  lookout  in  midocean.  There  might  be  hope  of  a  com- 
pleter impression  if  you  tried  an  aeroplane;  in  which  case 
prostrate  London-town  would  take  the  seeming  of  some 
fabulous  "questing  beste"  of  the  "Morte  d'Arthur," 
in  format  the  traditional  lion,  rotund,  monstrous,  and 
oddly  marked,  half -reclining  and  gazing  fixedly  seaward 
down  the  Thames.  A  monster,  indeed,  fourteen  miles 
by  ten,  and  of  a  vitality  so  expansive  that  his  nebulous 
aura  pervades  an  area  of  seven  hundred  square  miles ! 
Along  his  grim,  grimy  side  the  Thames  draws  a  crawling 
blue  band  with  a  deep  U  for  the  convenience  of  his  paws 
as  it  swings  around  the  Isle  of  Dogs,  the  Regent's  Canal 
marks  him  lightly  up  the  shoulder  and  clear  across  the 
upper  body,  and  along  the  profile  of  the  head  meanders 
the  marshy  River  Lea.  Odd  green  patches  would  stand 
for  the  parks  —  Regent's  on  his  back,  Hyde,  Green,  and 
St.  James's  on  his  flank,  and  on  his  right  ear,  Victoria. 
At  the  present  hour  he  is  speckled  with  a  myriad  of 
lights  from  the  tip  of  his  tail  to  his  chin-whisker,  and 
doubtless  in  all  respects  looks  wild  enough  to  daunt  Sir 
Launcelot  himself. 


LONDON  189 

To  the  average  visitor  London  is  the  Strand,  Fleet 
Street,  Regent  Street,  the  Embankment,  Piccadilly 
Circus,  Trafalgar  Square,  the  British  Museum,  and  the 
Tower.  But  tastes  differ  in  this  as  in  other  things,  and 
Boswell  was  doubtless  justified  in  amusing  himself  by 
noting  how  different  London  was  to  different  people. 
Opinions  on  the  subject  have  always  been  very  decided 
but  hopelessly  conflicting.  "Sir,"  quoth  Dr.  Johnson  to 
Boswell  at  the  Mitre  Tavern,  "the  happiness  of  London 
is  not  to  be  conceived  but  by  those  who  have  been  in  it." 
Note  Heinrich  Heine,  on  the  other  hand,  observing  in 
his  "English  Fragments":  "Do  not  send  a  philosopher 
to  London,  and,  for  Heaven's  sake,  do  not  send  a  poet. 
The  grim'seriousness  of  all  things;  the  colossal  monotony ; 
the  engine-like  activity;  themoroseness  even  of  pleasure; 
and  the  whole  of  this  exaggerated  London  will  break  his 
heart."  There  is  wisdom,  as  always,  in  a  happy  mean; 
and  one  might  do  worse  than  to  go  about  his  sight-seeing 
with  the  whetted  curiosity  and  flaming  imagination  of 
those  country  children  once  described  by  Leigh  Hunt 
as  fancying  they  see  "the  Duke  of  WeUington  standing 
with  his  sword  drawn  in  Apsley  House,  and  the  Queen, 
sitting  with  her  crown  on,  eating  barley-sugar  in  Buck- 
ingham Palace." 

To  such  a  mood  as  this,  evening  impressions  are 
fresh  and  vivid,  and  the  goggle-eyed  stranger,  suddenly 
set  down  at  seven  o'clock  before  the  Shaftesbury  Foun- 
tain in  the  centre  of  Piccadilly  Circus,  —  "feeling  in 


190     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

heart  and  soul  the  shock  of  the  huge  town's  first  pre- 
sence," —  would  probably  have  his  own  opinion  of  any 
intimation  that  there  was  really  very  little  doing  at  that 
time  in  view  of  the  hour  and  the  absence  of  Londoners  in 
the  country.  He  would  rather  incline  to  the  view  of  the 
Chinese  prince  who  took  one  look  at  the  wave  of  human- 
ity sweeping  across  London  Bridge  and  went  back  to  his 
hotel  and  wrote  home  that  he  had  reached  the  spot  where 
all  human  life  originates.  Certainly  the  stranger  at 
Piccadilly  Circus  would  need  but  one  wild  glance  at  the 
glare  and  blaze  of  lights,  the  excitement  around  the  **Cri," 
the  beckoning  bill-boards  of  the  Pavilion,  the  dazzle  of 
shop  windows  in  the  sweeping  curve  of  the  Regent  Street 
quadrant  and  the  tremendous  interweaving  of  carriages, 
swift  hansoms,  delivery  bicycles,  lumbering  busses, 
"taxis,"  "flys,"  and  "growlers,"  to  start  him  shouting 
to  the  nearest  "Bobby"  through  the  roar  of  the  wild 
surge  for  safe  passage  to  the  sidewalk  —  which  would 
be  readily  and  obligingly  accomplished  by  that  calmest 
and  most  tranquil  of  oflScials,  the  mere  lift  of  whose  hand 
is  as  miraculously  effective  as  the  presence  of  a  regiment 
at  "  charge." 

And  yet  the  intimation  to  the  stranger  would  be  en- 
tirely within  the  facts,  for  a  good  proportion  of  London- 
ers are  too  far  away  to  hear  the  seven  o'clock  bells  ring 
in  town.  The  Briton's  passion  for  out  of  doors  leads  him 
far  afield.  Thousands  are  at  this  hour  in  the  surf  at 
Brighton  or  strolling  on  the  terraced  streets  of  the  chalk 


LONDON  191 

cliffs  there;  hundreds  are  at  Harrow  enjoying  the  wide 
prospect  beloved  by  the  boy  Byron;  others  in  the  pleas- 
ant villages  of  Hatfield  and  St.  Albans;  some  are  spying 
for  deer  in  Epping  Forest;  and  a  happy  multitude  is 
turning  from  the  "  Maze  "  and  Dutch  Gardens  of  Hamp- 
ton Court  to  roll  homeward  by  brake  and  motor-car 
along  the  incomparable  chestnut  avenue  of  Bushy  Park, 
among  the  placid  deer  of  Richmond,  and  the  manifold 
dehghts  of  Kew  Gardens.  For  hours  the  "tubes,"  sur- 
face cars,  and  busses  have  been  working  to  capacity  to 
get  business  men  home,  and  loaded  trains  have  been 
groaning  out  of  Charing  Cross,  Euston,  Paddington, 
St.  Pancras,  Victoria,  and  Waterloo.  They  have  all 
arrived  by  now  at  their  various  destinations  —  around 
the  picturesque  Common  of  Clapham,  the  breezy 
heights  of  Highgate,  the  river  greens  of  Hammersmith, 
the  lush  meadows  of  Dulwich,  the  stuccoed  villas  of 
Islington,  the  quietude  of  Bethnal  Green,  or  the  wooded 
gardens  of  Brixton  Road.  Fancy  residential  property, 
in  every  guise  of  architectural  surprises,  is  drowsing  in 
the  shade  of  elm  and  oak  and  poplar  and  humming  to 
the  contented  chatter  of  reunited  families.  The  fortun- 
ate stranger  whom  Sir  Launcelot  has  "asked  down" 
to  "Joyous  Garde"  is  reveling  in  the  generous  roast  that 
makes  its  august  appearance  between  courses  of  Scotch 
salmon  and  Surrey  fowl,  and  presently  there  will  be  pol- 
itics and  Havanas  after  the  ladies  have  left,  and  later  on 
a  general  assembling  in  a  serene  walled  garden  with 


192    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

light  laughter  and  low-voiced  talk  and  mild  discussion 
of  water-parties,  dinners,  and  dances. 

The  London  parks  are  in  full  revelry  now,  with  bands 
at  play  and  tens  of  thousands  of  loiterers  crowding  the 
benches  and  moving  along  broad,  graveled  walks  under 
the  deep  shadows  of  old  elms  and  in  the  fragrance  of 
trim  flowerbeds.  At  Hampstead  Heath,  for  example, 
not  so  much  as  the  ghost  of  a  highwayman  haunts  the 
bracken-carpeted  hills,  and  East-Enders  are  out  there  in 
force  along"  Judge's  Walk,"  and  in  the  "Vale  of  Health" 
that  Keats  and  Leigh  Hunt  admired,  or  up  at  the 
"Flagstaff"  inspecting  "Jack  Straw's  Castle,"  as 
Dickens  so  often  did,  or  speculating  upon  the  sources  of 
the  ponds  with  as  much  aplomb  as  ever  did  Mr.  Pick- 
wick himself. 

Down  on  rugged  and  untamed  Blackheath  the  band  is 
playing  at "  The  Point,"  and  in  all  that  region  where  Wat 
Tyler  and  Jack  Cade  stirred  Kent  to  rebellion  the  talk  is 
now  of  London  docks  and  the  latest  scores  of  the  goKers. 

Up  at  airy  Victoria  Park  the  swans  in  the  ponds  and 
the  chaffinches  in  the  hawthorn  bushes  are  performing 
to  enthusiastic  audiences,  and  the  Gothic  Temple  of  the 
Victoria  Fountain  is  rimmed  with  rough  gallants  and 
the  "Sallies  of  their  Alleys"  who  betray  no  inclination 
to  "attempt  from  Love's  sickness  to  fly." 

The  cyclists  are  foregathered  at  picturesque  Batter- 
sea  Park  and  chatting  with  their  sweethearts  over  tea  in 
the  refreshment  rooms,  while  hundreds  of  unemployed 


LONDON  193 

who  can  afford  neither  bicycle,  sweetheart,  nor  tea 
gaze  gloomily  on  the  gorgeous  blooms  of  the  sub-trop- 
ical garden,  loll  over  the  balustrade  of  the  long  Thames 
embankment,  and  end  up  by  sprawling  face  down  on  the 
grass  or  dozing  fitfully  on  the  benches. 

Perhaps  the  largest  outpouring  of  all  is  at  ever  popu- 
lar Regent's  Park,  preferred  by  the  substantial  middle- 
class,  —  long  noted,  like  George  I,  for  virtues  rather 
than  accomplishments.  Doubtless  they  are  now  rambling 
through  the  Zoo,  exploring  the  Botanic  Gardens  where 
flowered  borders  and  large  stone  urns  are  spilling  over 
with  brilhant  color,  watching  the  driving  in  the  *' Outer 
Circle,"  or  swelling  the  throng  on  the  long  Board  Walk. 
Hundreds  on  these  shady  acres  are  taking  their  ease 
with  all  the  unction  of  Arden :  — 

"Under  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me. 
And  tune  his  merry  note. 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat." 

In  all  probability  tremendous  admiration  is  being 
expressed  at  aristocratic  Hyde  Park,  as  usual,  for  the 
broad  reaches  of  velvety  turf  and  the  venerable  oaks 
and  elms.  More  than  one  will  indulge  a  pleasant  reverie 
over  the  dead  and  gone  who  have  braved  it  there  — 
Pepys  in  his  new  yellow  coach,  dainty  ladies  in  powder 
and  patches  flashing  sparkling  eyes  on  the  gallants,  and 
the  scented,  unhappy  beaux  who  have  sighed  with 
Shenstone  along  these  allees: 


194    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE        ' 

"  When  forced  from  dear  Hebe  to  go 
What  anguish  I  felt  at  my  heart." 

Across  the  Serpentine  in  the  children's  paradise  of 
Kensington  Gardens  we  should  find  that  the  Board  Walk 
and  the  "Round  Pond"  lose  none  of  their  drawing- 
power  with  the  years  and  that  the  fountains  and  flow- 
ers are  as  beautiful  and  as  highly  prized  as  ever.  There 
is  the  additional  attraction  of  having  a  chance,  by  keep- 
ing a  sharp  eye  on  the  tops  of  the  tall  ash-trees,  of  catch- 
ing a  glimpse  of  Peter  Pan  preparing  to  fly  home  to  his 
mother's  window. 

The  exclusive  shades  of  Green  Park  and  St.  James's 
have  a  convenient  nearness  that  entices  hundreds  from 
the  roaring  thoroughfares  of  the  neighborhood,  and 
at  this  hour  their  old  elms  and  graceful  bowers  give 
impartially  of  their  repose  and  peace  to  hearts  that  are 
heavy  and  hearts  that  are  gay.  It  would  seem  inevitable 
that  thoughts  must  come  of  the  royal  and  princely 
companies  that  once  trod  these  ways  —  of  Charles  II, 
at  least,  strolling  in  St.  James's  surrounded  by  his  dogs, 
pausing  a  while  to  feed  his  ducks  and  then  tripping 
gayly  up  the  "Green  Walk"  for  a  chat  with  Nell 
Gwynn  over  the  garden  wall,  while  scandalized  John 
Evelyn  hurries  home  to  make  note  in  his  journal  of 
"a  very  familiar  discourse  between  the  King  and  Mrs. 
Nelly." 

The  London  social  season  being  at  its  height  during 
May,  June,  and  July,  while  Parliament  is  in  session,  be- 


LONDON  195 

la  ted  clerks  wending  homeward  between  seven  and  eight 
o'clock  find  the  great  houses  occupied  and  dinner-par- 
ties in  progress  with  as  much  universality  as  a  New 
York  clerk,  under  like  circumstances  at  home,  would 
expect  to  see  in  December.  All  Mayfair,  Belgravia,  and 
Pimlico  is  indulging  in  feasting  and  merriment,  and  the 
austere  aloofness  of  their  retired  squares,  with  central 
parks  high-fenced  in  iron  from  contact  with  the  "ordin- 
ary person,"  is  broken  by  the  whirl  of  the  carriages  and 
motors  of  arriving  guests.  The  sudden  flood  of  soft 
lights  from  the  reception  hall  as  Hawkins  throws  open 
the  door,  and  the  quick  and  noiseless  disappearance  of 
the  conveyances,  is  all  of  a  moment  and  our  clerk  finds 
himself  disconsolately  gazing  at  the  frowning  front 
of  some  solid,  ivy-grown,  and  altogether  charming  old 
mansion,  through  whose  carefully-drawn  window  drap- 
eries only  the  slightest  of  beams  dares  venture  forth 
to  him.  Were  he  to  indulge  such  a  passion  for  walking 
as  characterized  Lord  Macaulay,  —  said  to  have  passed 
through  every  street  of  London  in  his  day,  —  he  would 
find  the  same  thing  in  progress  at  this  hour  in  all  the 
exclusive  region  that  lies  in  the  purlieus  of  Buckingham 
Palace.  Dignity,  riches,  elegance,  and  power  would  be 
his  in  hasty,  grudging  glimpses  —  and  then  the  dim 
square  again  and  the  high  iron  fence.  The  London 
square,  indeed,  seems  decorative  only — trees,  turf,  flow- 
ers, and  the  fence,  and  the  surrounding  houses  playing 
dog-in-the-manager.   This   is  not  always  without   its 


196    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

bewilderment  to  foreigners;  and  so  confirmed  a  traveler 
as  Theophile  Gautier  puzzled  over  the  matter  consider- 
ably before  he  dismissed  it  with  the  conclusion  that  it  is 
probably  satisfaction  enough  to  the  owners  to  have 
kept  other  people  out. 

If  our  clerk  were  to  take  the  "tube"  at  Brompton 
Road  and  come  out  at  Whitechapel  Station  in  the  East 
End,  he  would  see  the  other  side  of  the  story  with  a 
vengeance.  To  quote  Gautier  again,  "to  be  poor  in 
London  is  one  of  the  tortures  forgotten  by  Dante." 
Here  the  air  is  stifling  with  dirty  dust,  and  thousands  of 
miserable,  unkempt  creatures  with  wan  and  pasty  faces 
feed,  when  they  can  muster  a  penny,  on  a  choice  of 
"black  puddings,"  pork-pies,  "sheep-trotters,"  or  the 
mysterious,  smoking  "faggots."  In  old  Ratcliffe  High- 
way, which  is  now  St.  George  Street,  they  make  out 
by  munching  kippers  carried  in  hand  as  they  go  their 
devious  ways.  An  occasional  stale  fish  from  Billings- 
gate is  that  much  better  than  nothing.  Yiddish  seems 
to  be  the  prevailing  national  tongue  east  of  Aldgate 
Pump,  and  if  you  understand  it  there  will  be  no  trouble 
over  the  signs  and  announcements.  With  characteristic 
Hebrew  thrift  it  is  always  "open  season"  for  buyers. 
Each  product  has  its  special  habitat.  Toys  or  other 
sweatshop  articles  come  from  Houndsditch,  shoes  from 
Spitalfields,  leather  goods  from  Bermondsey,  beef  rem- 
nants from  Smithfield,  left-over  poultry  from  Leaden- 
hall,  vegetable  "seconds"  from  Covent  Garden,  birds 


LONDON  197 

are  to  be  had  in  Club  Row,  meat  and  clothing  in  Brick 
Lane,  and  a  general  outfitting  in  Petticoat  Lane  which 
the  reformers  have  rechristened  Middlesex  Street.  As 
for  a  "screw  o'  baccy"  or  a  "mug  o'  bitter,"  the  "pub" 
of  any  corner  will  answer.  The  University  Settlement 
workers  of  Toynbee  Hall  are  doing  what  men  can  to 
better  conditions,  but  so  have  others  tried  for  ages  — 
yet  here  is  the  malodorous  East  End  practically  as  un- 
washed and  unregenerate  as  of  old.  The  glimpses  one 
catches  of  squalor  and  filth  up  narrow  passages  and  of  the 
damp  and  grimy  ''closes"  that  remind  you  of  Hogarth's 
drawings  are  apt  to  content  the  most  curious,  unless  he 
be  an  insatiable  investigator,  indeed,  and  is  willing  to 
take  his  chances  of  being  "burked."  Hand  on  pocket 
you  thread  narrow  alleys  where  people  are  said  to  have 
been  offered  attractive  bargains  on  their  own  watches 
when  they  reached  the  other  end.  Here  after  the  day's 
work  is  over  and  the  "moke"  and  barrow  safely  stabled 
for  the  night,  with  a  "  Wot  cher,  chummy;  'ow  yer  'op- 
pin'  up?"  our  industrious  coster  friends,  'Arry  and  'Ar- 
riet,  make  merry  among  pals  at  a\"Free  and  Easy," 
or  lay  out  a  couple  of  "thri'-p'ny  bits"  for  seats  in  a 
local  theatre,  whence  they  emerge  between  acts  for  a 
"'arf-en'-'arf"  or  a  "pot-o'-porter"  with  instant  and 
painfully  frank  opinions  if  "  it  'yn't  fustryte."  Dinner  at 
"The  Three  Nuns,"  of  course,  is  only  for  state  occasions. 
They  are  the  people,  just  the  same,  to  get  most  out  of 
Hampstead  Heath  on  a  Bank  Holiday  or  a  picnic  at 


198    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Epping  Forest  any  time.  With  them  originated  in  days 
gone  most  of  the  catchy  street-cries  for  which  London 
was  long  curiously  noted.  But  one  hears  no  more 
"Bellows  to  Mend!"  or  "Three  Rows  a  Penny  Pins!"  or 
"Cockles  and  Mussels,  Ahve,  Alive  oh!"  or  "Sweet 
Blooming  Lavender,  Six  Bunches  a  Penny!"  or  "One 
a  Penny,  two  a  Penny,  Hot  Cross  Buns!"  or  the  tradi- 
tional tune  of  "Buy  a  Broom!"  or  the  barrow-woman's 
"Ripe  Cherries!"  and  "Green  Rushes  O!"  You  may, 
however,  have  a  chance  at  "  'Taters,  all  'ot!"  or  "Three 
a  Penny,  Yarmouth  Bloaters;  'ere's  yer  Bloaters!" 
After  all,  it  takes  a  very  limited  inspection  of  the  East 
End  to  wish  them  all  in  Hyde  Park,  as  the  flag  falls  at 
seven-thirty,  to  join  the  hundreds  of  men  and  boys  there 
who  are  out  of  their  clothes  before  the  signal  is  barely 
given  and  taking  an  evening  plunge  in  the  Serpentine. 
Between  the  truffles  of  Mayfair  and  the  "faggots" 
of  Whitechapel  lies  the  region  of  the  menu  with  which 
the  average  Londoner  is  most  familiar  and  which  he  is 
now  exploring  with  profound  earnestness  according  to 
his  lights  and  shillings.  Dining,  as  every  one  knows, 
is  an  important  expression  of  the  British  conscience,  a 
solemn  rite  of  well-nigh  religious  momentousness.  The 
traditional  fate  of  the  uninvited  guest  is  his  in  double 
measure  who  ventures  to  intrude  between  the  Briton  and 
his  beef.  One  might  "  try  it  on,"  perhaps,  on  the  Surrey 
Side  where  they  incline  to  "dining  from  the  joint" 
around  six  o'clock  —  though  nothing  short  of  com- 


LONDON  199 

pulsion  should  take  a  sight-seer  to  South  London  after 
nightfall.  The  shabby  Southwark  shore  of  dingy 
wharves  and  grimy  sheds  is  half  concealed  in  drifting 
shadows  raised  by  the  uncertain  light  of  flickering  gas 
jets  and  the  net  results  are  not  worth  the  trouble  of 
walking  London  Bridge,  unless  we  except  the  picture  of 
quiet  dignity  and  mellow  beauty  presented  by  the  an- 
cient church  of  St.  Saviour.  This  rare  old  survivor  finely 
expresses  by  night  the  subtle  sense  of  a  long-continued 
veneration  and  the  finger-touches  of  the  passing  years. 
And  to  think  that  St.  Saviour's  was  doing  parish  duty 
and  was  a  delight  to  look  upon  long  before  the  Globe 
Theatre  of  Shakespearean  fame  had  reared  a  neigh- 
boring head !  But  the  gloom  of  the  Surrey  Side  is  thicker 
and  more  discomforting  than  the  fog.  Long,  monoton- 
ous, cheerless  streets,  poorly  lighted  and  scantily 
employed  after  dark,  emerge  from  drab  perspectives 
of  gloaming  and  fade  sullenly  away  into  others.  The 
scattered  pedestrians  one  encounters  reflect  by  solemn 
countenance  the  prevailing  depression  and  seem  able 
to  take  but  little  heart  of  courage  as  they  go  their 
melancholy  ways.  The  whole  region  appears  given  over 
to  breweries,  potteries,  factories,  and  hospitals.  By 
night  Lambeth  Palace  itself  takes  on  the  universal 
brewery  aspect.  You  even  detect  a  vatish  look  to  the 
Greenwich  Observatory  and  mistrust  some  trace  of 
beer  in  the  famous  meridian.  And  then  the  tarry 
hotels  of  Greenwich  must  add  their  quota  to  the  general 


200    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

dejection  by  offering  everything  in  the  world  in  the 
way  of  fish  excepting  its  celebrated  whitebait,  which  was, 
of  course,  the  one  thing  you  had  come  for.  The  lights 
of  St.  George's  Circus  —  the  Leicester  Square  of  South 
London  —  may  be  few  in  point  of  fact,  but  they  seem 
highly  exhilarating  down  there;  nor  are  you  to  scorn  the 
good  cheer  of  the  comfortable  old  tavern  hard  by  that 
rejoices  in  the  extraordinary  name  of  "The  Elephant 
and  Castle."  There  may  also  be  a  kindly  feeling  for  the 
Old  Kent  Road  where  Chevalier's  coster  "knock'd 
'em,"  but  otherwise  the  breweries  win.  There  is  one  on 
the  sacred  site  of  the  old  Globe  Theatre,  something 
like  one  where  stood  the  Tabard  Inn  whence  Chaucer 
started  his  immortal  Pilgrims  for  Canterbury,  and  you 
will  find  a  brazen  gin  palace  if  you  search  for  "The 
WTiite  Hart  Inn,"  of  "Henry  VI"  and  "Pickwick 
Papers."  Poor  old  Southwark!  Her  glorious  days  of 
light  have  passed ! 

"And  'she'  shakes  'her'  feeble  head. 
That  it  seems  as  if  'she'  said, 
'They  are  gone.'" 

Even  Southwark  is  not  much  duller  at  this  hour  than 
that  ancient  nucleus  that  is  still  styled  the  "City." 
Where  the  leading  commercial  centres  and  money  mar- 
kets of  the  world  were  in  frenzied  activity,  two  or  three 
hours  ago,  a  few  belated  pedestrians  now'go  clattering 
along  echoing  and  deserted  streets  with  an  unhappy 
air  of  apology.     No  section  of  London  undergoes  so 


LONDON  201 

amazing  a  transformation  each  day;  nor  is  any  other 
so  drear  and  cheerless  by  the  suddenness  of  contrast 
—  attesting  the  keenness  of  Lowell's  observation  that 
nothing  makes  so  much  for  loneliness  as  the  sense  of 
man's  departure.  There  is  little  dining  now  in  the  re- 
gion where  Falstaff  once  reveled  at  "The  Boar's  Head" 
and  the  Shakespearean  coterie  at  "The  Mermaid 
Tavern."  The  low,  windowless,  stolid  Bank  of  England 
gropes  like  a  blindman  toward  Wellington  on  his  horse 
before  the  lofty  Corinthian  portico  of  the  Royal  Ex- 
change, and  the  massive,  sombre  Mansion  House  of  the 
Lord  Mayor  suggests  some  ruined  temple  of  Paestum. 
"  Gog  "  and  "  Magog  "  slumber  in  the  dusty  recesses 
of  the  old  Guildhall,  and  the  pigeons  nest  in  its  black- 
ened eaves  unstartled  by  the  impassioned  oratory  of 
government  ministers  at  banquets.  But  it  is  the  time 
of  times  to  attend  the  sweet  chiming  of  Bow  Bells, 
under  the  dragon  in  the  beautiful  tower  that  Wren 
built  for  St.  Mary's,  and  one  could  almost  wish  to  have 
been  born  cockney  if  only  to  have  heard  them  ringing 
from  babyhood.  The  winding  and  gloomy  little  streets 
whose  names  recall  so  much  in  the  lives  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan literati  entice  one  craftily,  like  so  many  Bow 
runners,  into  the  purlieus  of  the  Tower,  within  the 
shadows  of  whose  momentous  walls  cabmen  drowse 
securely  on  the  boxes  of  dusty  four-wheelers.  To  the 
imaginative  stranger  its  bright  fascination  by  day  suf- 
fers a  night-change  into  something  gruesomely  repellent. 


202     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

and  the  "beef -eaters"  do  not  protect  the  crown  jewels 
half  so  effectively  as  do  the  headless  shades  of  Lady 
Jane  Grey  and  Henry's  unhappy  queens,  Anne  Boleyn 
and  Catherine  Howard.  Doubtless  there  are  safer 
thoroughfares  on  earth  than  Lower  Thames  Street  in 
the  early  evening,  but  they  would  not  lead  to  as  divert- 
ing a  neighborhood.  The  wharves  and  storehouses  may 
not  be  as  tumultuous  as  by  day,  but  the  fastidious  way- 
farer encounters  at  Billingsgate  enough  strength  of 
language  and  odor  to  satisfy.  Tom  Bowling  is  enter- 
taining Black-eyed  Susan  at  some  East  End  *'hall," 
but  the  *'pubs"  are  roaring  with  "the  mariners  of  Eng- 
land that  guard  our  native  seas."  Still,  cutty-pipes  are 
glowing  at  Wapping  Old  Stairs,  and  the  heaving  tur- 
moil of  the  shipping  in  the  "Pool,"  with  swaying  riding- 
lights  dotting  the  vast  tangle  of  masts  and  cordage,  pre- 
pares you  for  the  shock  of  the  amazing  human  wave 
that  is  ever  surging  with  a  ceaseless  roar  across  old  Lon- 
don Bridge.  Caught  in  the  strong  current  of  that  billow 
one  washes  back  to  Wellington  and  his  horse  and  drifts 
aimlessly  along  under  the  raised  awnings  of  the  tailor 
shops  of  Cheapside,  with  scarce  time  for  a  grateful 
hand-wave  to  hushed  and  shadowed  St.  Augustine's  for 
the  "Ingoldsby  Legends"  its  former  rector  gave  us,  be- 
fore he  finds  himself  high  and  dry  in  Paternoster  Row 
and  the  bookish  churchyard  of  St.  Paul's.  The  great 
cathedral  is  imposing,  without  doubt,  and  no  one  would 
think  of  saying  that  Wren  did  not  earn  the  two  hundred 


LONDON  203 

pounds  per  annum  he  received  during  the  thirty -five 
years  it  took  him  to  build  it;  —  and  yet  it  can  hardly  be 
expected  to  appear  over-cheerful  by  night,  when  it  is 
chill  and  gloomy  and  repellent  by  day  with  the  sun 
powerless  to  warm  the  tessellated  floor  and  stiff,  gloomy 
monuments  with  the  brightest  colors  of  its  stained-glass 
windows  —  futile  to  rival  even  the  moon  in  that  vision 
of  Keats  as  she 

"Threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast, 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint." 

The  moon,  however,  will  aid  us  now  in  quickening  into 
life  the  rich  memories  that  adhere  to  the  surrounding 
churchyard  and  to  Paternoster  Row,  where  so  many 
generations  of  authors  and  publishers  in  dingy  shops 
and  inns  and  coffee-houses  have  debated  the  launching 
of  immortal  books.  Every  English-published  volume 
must  still  start  its  race  from  neighboring  Stationers' 
Hall. 

The  foolish  stranger  who  chooses  such  an  hour  for 
a  tramp  about  the  "City"  will  breathe  more  freely, 
after  he  has  exorcised  the  last  whimpering  shade  of 
Newgate  and  "the  poor  prisoners  of  the  'Fleet,'"  as 
he  hurries  along  Ludgate  Hill  and  attains  unto  his 
heart's  desire  at  Fleet  Street.  Thence  on,  it  is  all  the 
primrose  way.  No  matter  what  the  hour  or  season,  he 
can  never  be  companionless  in  the  "Highway  of  Let- 


204     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

ters"  for  its  very  excess  of  material  and  immaterial 
presences.  In  its  brief  and  narrow  course  of  a  few  hun- 
dred yards,  the  richest  in  literary  associations  of  any 
region  on  earth,  the  weather-beaten,  irregular  fronts 
of  its  old  stone  houses  look  down  affectionately,  and 
perhaps  pityingly,  on  hurrying  journalists  and  anxious 
authors,  as  they  have  been  doing  for  ages.  The  lei- 
surely diner  of  the  old  school  who  clings  to  the  mellow 
places  of  inspiring  associations  is  pretty  sure  to  be  going 
along  Fleet  Street  at  this  time,  intent  on  a  chop  and 
kidneys  and  a  mug  of  stout  at  "The  Cock,"  preferred 
of  Tennyson,  or  a  beefsteak-pudding  and  toby  of  ale 
at  the  sand-floored  "Cheshire  Cheese"  palpitant  with 
memories  of  autocratic  and  snuffy  Dr.  Johnson  ex- 
ploding with  "Sirs,"  of  good-natured  Goldsmith, 
crotchety  Reynolds,  impassioned  Burke,  merry  Gar- 
rick,  and  all  the  others  of  that  deathless  company. 
The  usual  evening  idler  and  aimless  stroller  always 
makes  Fleet  Street  a  part  of  his  pleasant  itinerary,  and  it 
matters  little  to  him  that  the  sidewalks  are  narrow  and 
the  crowd  uncomfortably  large,  when  he  can  beguile 
each  yard  or  two  by  lingering  glances  up  dim  and  fas- 
cinating little  rookery  courts  full  of  mysterious  corners 
and  deep  shadows  whose  paving-stones  have  reechoed 
the  tread  of  so  many  sons  of  fame.  The  lights  may  not 
be  as  bright  nor  as  numerous  as  in  the  Strand,  nor  the 
shops  as  attractive,  but  they  are  non-existent  to  the 
sentimentalist  who  is  seeing  Izaak  Walton  in  his  hosier 


LONDON  205 

shop  at  the  Coventry  Lane  corner  and  Richard  Love- 
lace in  dingy  quarters  up  Gunpowder  Alley,  and  is 
peering  wistfully  through  the  arched  gateway  to  the 
Temple  for  a  glimpse  of  Lamb's  birthplace  or  Fielding's 
home  or  Goldsmith's  grave  or  a  sight  of  those  delight- 
ful "old  benchers,"  brusque  "Thomas  Coventry," 
methodical  "Peter  Pierson,"  and  gentle  "Samuel 
Salt."  Doubtless  he  is  able  even  to  detect  the  rich  aroma 
of  the  chimney-sweeps'  sassafras  tea  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  "Mr.  Read's  shop,  on  the  south  side  of  Fleet 
Street,  as  thou  approachest  Bridge  Street." 

The  shadows  fall  away  with  startling  suddenness  as 
Fleet  Street  becomes  the  Strand  at  Temple  Bar.  The 
joUiest  uproar  of  all  London  storms  impetuously  along 
that  modern  Rialto  all  the  way  into  Trafalgar  Square, 
BriUiant  lights,  shop  displays  of  every  description, 
theatres,  hotels,  and  restaurants  create  a  profusion  of 
excitement  for  the  gay  and  jostling  crowd  that  harries 
you  perilously  near  to  the  curb  and  the  heavy  wheels  of 
the  ponderous  busses. 

And  what  an  amazing  institution  the  London  bus  is ! 
The  Strand  might  still  be  the  Strand  if  St.  Mary's  and 
St.  Clement  Danes  were  effaced  from  its  roadway,  but 
what  if  the  busses  went !  Gladstone's  partiality  for  these 
archaic  contrivances  was  extreme,  which  naturally  dis- 
posed Disraeli  to  take  the  other  side  and  champion 
the  fleeting  hansom  —  "the  gondola  of  London,"  as 
he  aptly  styled  it.     And,  indeed,  much  may  be  said 


206    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

in  commendation  of  the  omnipresence,  economy,  and 
convenience  of  the  latter,  and  of  its  friendly  way  of 
flying  to  one's  aid  at  the  merest  raising  of  the  hand  to 
whisk  you  away  at  breakneck  speed  and  through  a 
thousand  hairbreadth  escapes  to  any  possible  destina- 
tion you  may  indicate.  But  the  majority  vote  with 
Gladstone,  nevertheless,  and  take  their  ease  on  a  bus- 
top.  It  is  true  that  in  the  profusion  of  advertising  signs 
you  may  not  always  be  certain  whether  you  are  bound 
for  Pear's  Soap  or  Sanderson's  Mountain  Dew,  but  with 
blissful  indifference  you  pocket  the  long  ticket,  and, 
ensconced  among  the  glowing  pipe-bowls  in  the  dusk 
of  a  "garden-seat,"  "rumble  earthquakingly  aloft." 
What  a  delight  it  is  to  hear  the  cockney  conductor  drawl 
"Chairin'  Crauss,"  "Tot'nh'm  Court  Rauwd,"  "S'n 
Jimes-iz  Pawk,"  and  the  rest  of  it!  From  your  heaving 
perch  beside  the  ruddy-faced  driver  in  his  white  high 
hat  you  observe  that  your  ark  keeps  turning  to  the 
left,  —  the  English  rule  of  the  road,  —  and  that  now 
you  must  look  down  instead  of  up  to  find  the  placards 
on  the  trolley  posts  that  mark  the  stopping-places  of 
the  trams.  You  see  belated  solicitors  and  barristers 
hurrying  out  of  the  great  gray  courts  of  justice,  and 
above  the  heads  of  the  pedestrians  you  may  study  the 
gloomy  arches  of  Somerset  House  or  the  ornate  Lyceum 
where  Sir  Henry  Irving  reigned  or  the  neat  little  Savoy 
where  Gilbert  and  Sullivan  won  spurs  and  fortune.  It 
is  a  great  satisfaction  to  look  down  in  comfort  on  the 


LONDON  207 

elbowing  throng  you  have  escaped,  with  its  jostling 
and  its  stereotyped  "I'm  sorry,"  — the  top-hats  and 
the  caps,  the  actors,  bohemians,  professional  men,  tour- 
ists, tramps,  beggars,  thieves.  Tommy  Atkins  in  "pill- 
box" and  "swagger,"  blue-coated  and  yellow-legged 
boys  of  Christ's  Hospital,  red-coated  bootblacks,  bar- 
maids in  turndown  collars,  well-dressed  and  shabbily- 
dressed  women,  as  well  as  that  particularly  flashy  brand 
to  whom  you  return  a  ''Vade  retro,  Satanus!''  to  her 
"Come  to  my  arms,  my  slight  acquaintance."  No  won- 
der when  Kipling's  "Private  Ortheris"  went  mad  of 
the  heat  in  India  that  he  babbled  of  the  Adelphi  Arches 
and  the  Strand ! 

In  the  lull  before  the  turning  of  the  evening  tide  to- 
ward the  opera  and  the  theatre  there  is  opportunity  for 
each  to  indulge  his  penchant.  What  the  shops  of  Fleet 
Street  and  the  Strand  show  in  general,  the  windows  of 
specialists  elsewhere  are  presenting  in  particular  and  with 
increased  elaboration.  Regent  Street  will  draw  the  fan- 
ciers of  pictures,  leather  goods,  perfumes,  and  jewelry; 
Bond  Street,  rare  paintings  and  choice  porcelains; 
Wardour  Street,  curios  and  antiques;  Stan  way  Street, 
silver  and  embroidery;  Charing  Cross  Road,  old  book- 
stalls; and  Hatton  Garden,  diamonds,  —  the  same 
Hatton  Garden  that  Queen  Elizabeth  gave  a  slice  of  to  a 
favorite  courtier  and  threatened  the  Bishop  of  Ely  in  a 
brief  but  sufficient  note  to  hurry  up  with  the  necessary 
details  or  "I  will  unfrock  you,  by  God!"  This  method- 


208    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

ical  fashion  of  grouping  certain  interests  in  definite  local- 
ities is  carried  even  further;  as,  for  example,  should  you 
feel  the  need  of  a  physician  it  is  not  necessary  to  wade 
through  the  thirty-five  hundred  pages  of  Kelly's  Post- 
Office  Directory,  but  take  a  taxi  to  Harley  Street  where 
any  house  can  supply  you.  No  matter  where  you  ramble, 
surprises  and  delights  await  you.  It  will  be  found  so  to 
those  in  particular  who  stroll  down  Oxford  Street  — 
with  thoughts,  perhaps,  of  De  Quincey  when  a  starved 
and  homeless  little  boy  groping  a  timorous  and  whim- 
pering way  down  this  street  as  he  clutched  the  hand  of 
his  new  acquaintance;  or  of  Hazlitt's  dramatic  struggle 
with  hunger  and  poverty  —  and  suddenly,  on  reaching 
High  Holborn,  catch  their  first  glimpse  of  the  pictur- 
esque beauty  of  mediaeval  Staple  Inn.  There  are  few 
lovelier  spots  in  all  London,  and  the  sparrows  still  chat- 
ter there  as  clamorously  every  evening  as  they  did  when 
Dr.  Johnson  frowned  up  at  them  from  the  manuscript 
of  "Rasselas,"  or  when  Dickens  lived  and  worked  there, 
or  when  Hawthorne  visited  and  revisited  it  with  increas- 
ing delight. 

The  princely  spaces  in  the  neighborhood  of  Bucking- 
ham Palace  are  quite  as  attractive  at  this  hour  as  when 
the  afternoon  sun  is  warm  along  fair  Piccadilly  — 
*'  radiant  and  immortal  street,"  said  Henley  —  and  the 
gay  coaches  clatter  back  toward  Trafalgar  Square  with 
blasts  of  horn  and  jangling  chains.  The  Mall,  the  Grand 
Walk  for  ages,  fairly  exhales  class  and  pride  in  the  deep- 


LONDON  209 

ening  dusk  of  the  late  English  twilight.  The  clubmen  of 
Pall  Mall  and  St.  James's  Street,  in  their  fine,  imposing 
old  houses,  are  taking  up  the  question  of  the  evening's 
amusements  with  as  much  bored  listlessness  by  the 
aristocrats  at  Brooks's  as  rakish  enthusiasm  by  the 
country  gentlemen  of  Boodle's.  Signs  of  approaching 
activity  are  even  to  be  observed  in  the  stately  man- 
sions of  exclusive  Park  Lane  —  a  street  that  half  the 
business  men  of  London  hope  to  be  rich  enough  to  live  in 
some  day ;  so  effectually  has  time  effaced  the  memory  of 
Jack  Sheppard  and  Jonathan  Wild  and  the  rest  of  the 
air-dancing  specialists  who  figured  here  in  chains  in  the 
days  when  Tyburn  Hill  was  a  name  to  shudder  over. 

But  the  appeal  of  the  "halls,"  which  began  when  the 
curtains  of  the  Alhambra  and  the  Pavilion  went  up  at 
seven-thirty,  grows  almost  imperative  as  the  hour  wears 
around  toward  eight.  The  rank  of  waiting  cabs  up  the 
middle  of  Haymarket  is  thinned  to  the  merest  trickle. 
"Heavy  swells"  of  clubdom  and  the  West  End  are 
strolling  in  groups  across  the  wide,  statue-dotted  ex- 
panse of  Trafalgar  Square,  stopping  to  scratch  matches 
on  the  lions  of  Nelson's  Column  or  General  Gordon's 
granite  base.  The  artists  are  forsaking  the  studios  of 
Chelsea,  the  real  bohemians  —  not  the  pretenders  of  the 
Savage  Club  and  the  Vagabond  dinners  —  the  cheap 
restaurants  and  the  performing  monkeys  of  Soho,  the 
students  their  quiet  quarters  in  Bloomsbury  and  the 
forty  miles  of  book-shelves  of  the  British  Museum,  the 


210    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

musicians  their  Baker  Street  lodgings  up  Madame  Tus- 
saud's  way,  the  literary  people  their  charming  Kensing- 
ton, and  even  the  gay  Italians  are  deserting  the  organ- 
grinding  on  Saffron  Hill  and  the  disorder  of  St.  Giles  — 
and  all  are  rapidly  moving  on  Leicester  Square,  Picca- 
dilly Circus,  and  the  Strand.  There  they  will  view  the 
elaborate  ballets  according  to  their  means;  from  the 
"pit"  for  a  shilling,  or  from  a  grand  circle  "stall"  for 
seven  shiUings  sixpence,  with  another  sixpence  to  the 
girl  usher  for  a  programme  loaded  with  advertisements. 
It  is  the  hour  when  Pierce  Egan  would  have  summoned 
"Tom  and  Jerry"  to  be  in  at  the  inaugural  of  the  night 
life  of  the  great  city,  and  Colonel  Newcome  would  have 
marched  Clive  out  of  the  "Cave  of  Harmony"  to  hear 
less  offensive  entertainers  at  the  "halls."  It  is  the  time 
Stevenson's  "New  Arabian  Nights"  has  invested  with 
the  richest  potentiality  for  adventure,  and  when,  in 
consequence,  any  polite  tobacconist  is  likely  suddenly  to 
disclose  himself  as  a  reigning  sovereign  in  disguise. 
Sherlock  Holmes  and  Dr.  Watson,  you  may  be  sure,  are 
never  in  their  Baker  Street  lodgings  at  such  a  time  as 
this.  In  the  preliminary  uproar  about  the  bars  of  the 
favorite  cafes  and  in  the  flashing  of  electric  signs,  glare 
of  lights,  and  rush  of  hansoms  and  motors,  one  may 
discern  the  beginnings  of  "a  night  of  it"  for  many 
whom  the  early  sun  will  surprise  with  bleared  eyes  and 
battered  top-hats  about  the  coffee-booths  of  Covent 
Garden.   And,  indeed,  unless  you  have  access  to  a  club. 


LONDON  211 

night-foraging  is  a  highly  difficult  undertaking  in  Lon- 
don. Every  restaurant  closes  down  at  half  an  hour 
after  midnight;  and  thereafter,  unless  you  come  across  a 
chance  "luncheon-bar"  that  defies  the  authorities,  or  a 
friendly  cabman  introduces  you  to  a  "shelter,"  you 
may  have  to  content  yourself  with  a  hard-boiled  egg  at 
a  coffee-stall.  Many  a  sturdy  Briton  trudging  along 
behind  his  linkman  could  have  found  better  accommo- 
dation two  hundred  years  ago  when  the  watch  went  by 
with  stave  and  lantern  and  cried  out  that  it  was  two 
o'clock  and  a  fine  morning. 

With  Big  Ben  in  Parliament  Watch  Tower  throwing 
his  full  thirteen  tons  into  an  effort  to  advise  as  many 
Londoners  as  possible  that  it  is  eight  o'clock  at  last,  and 
with  a  band  concert  in  progress  in  the  Villiers  Street 
Garden  of  the  Embankment,  as  agreeable  a  lounging- 
place  as  one  could  desire  is  the  beautiful  expanse  of 
Waterloo  Bridge.  Not  only  is  the  prospect  fair  and 
inspiring,  but  the  great  bridge  itself  is  worthy  of  it.  Said 
Gautier,  "It  is  surely  the  finest  in  the  world";  said 
Canova,  "It  is  worthy  of  the  Romans."  Pallid  and 
broad  and  long,  and  so  level  that  its  double  lines  of  fine 
lights  scarcely  rise  to  the  slightest  of  arcs,  it  rests  with 
rare  grace  on  its  nine  sweeping  arches  and  spans  the 
Thames  just  where  the  great  bend  is  made  to  the  east. 
One  looks  along  it  northward  and  sees  the  lamps  of 
Wellington  Street  fade  into  the  blurring  dazzle  of  the 
Strand  and  Longacre,  and  southward  to  find  the  con- 


212     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

verging  lights  of  Waterloo  Road  sending  a  bright  arrow 
straight  to  the  heart  of  Southwark.  The  greensward 
of  the  flowered  and  statued  Embankment  sweeps  across 
and  back  on  either  side  of  its  northern  end,  and  palace 
hotels,  Somerset  House  and  the  huge  glass  roof  of  Char- 
ing Cross  Station  bulk  large  at  hand.  Eastward  the 
Ionic  columns  of  Blackfriars  Bridge  and  the  strutting 
iron  arches  of  Southwark  Bridge  stalk  boldly  across  the 
serene  river,  and  southwestward  the  broad  arch  of 
Westminster  Bridge  offers  Parliament  cheer  to  glum 
Lambeth.  It  would  be  the  most  natural  mistake  in  the 
world  to  suppose  the  trim  buildings  of  St.  Thomas 
Hospital,  on  the  Surrey  bank,  a  favored  row  of  hand- 
some detached  summer  villas,  with  owners  of  strong 
political  influence  to  be  able  to  build  on  the  fine  long 
curve  of  the  Albert  Embankment,  having  no  less  a  vis- 
a-vis than  the  terraces  and  glorious  Gothic  pile  of  Par- 
liament buildings  on  their  thousand  feet  of  "noblest 
water  front  in  the  world." 

Only  the  mind's  eye  may  look  farther  on  to  Chelsea 
and  take  note  of  the  tall  plane-trees  of  Cheyne  Walk, 
and  re-people  the  red  brick  terraces  and  homely  old 
houses  with  Sir  Thomas  More  entertaining  Erasmus  and 
Holbein,  with  Addison  and  Steele  in  revelry  at  Don 
Saltero's  coffee-house,  with  Byron  at  home  in  the  amaz- 
ing disorder  of  Leigh  Hunt's  cottage,  with  Tennyson 
smoking  long  pipes  with  Carlyle,  with  Turner  and 
Whistler  bending  over  their  palettes,  and  with  Rossetti, 


in'  I' 


^^- 


LONDON,    ST.    PAUL  S    FROM    UNDER   WATERLOO    BRIDGE 


LONDON  213 

Swinburne,  and  Meredith  courting  the  Muses  under  a 
common  roof  and  in  a  common  brotherhood. 

To  the  observer  on  Waterloo  Bridge  the  deep  roar  of 
the  city  comes  out  dulled  and  subdued.    Bells  chime 
softly  and  the  whistles  of  the  river-craft  sound,  from 
time  to  time,  with  sudden  and  startling  shrillness.  Long 
shafts  of  light  shake  out  from  either  bank  and  spots  of 
color  from  signal  lamps  dot  the  nearer  rim.  All  outside 
is  a  bright  dazzle,  with  patches  of  deep  shadow  and 
heavy  ripples  from  the  brown-sailed  lighters  and  pert 
steamers  that  move  across  the  shining  reaches.    The 
gloomy  Southwark  shore  is  blurred  and  uncertain  in 
light  mists,  and  the  roof  masses  of  the  frowning  city  lift 
the  ghostly  fingers  of  Wren's  slender  spires  and  cower 
beneath  the  indistinct  and  cloudlike  silhouette  of  the 
dome  of  St.  Paul's.  The  prospect  is  that  of  a  vast,  con- 
fused expanse  of  indistinguishable,  shadowy  blending 
of  buildings  and  foliage  whose  remoter  verges  merge 
into  a  soft  violet  blur,  and  over  all  of  it  rages  a  wild 
snowstorm  of  tiny  pin-point  lights.    Under  the  arches 
of  the  bridge  old  Father  Thames  moves  serenely  sea- 
ward, the  most  ancient  and  yet  ever  the  youngest  mem- 
ber of  the  community.   From  his  continual  renewal  of 
life  one  could  believe  that  in  some  long-forgotten  time 
he  had  won  this  reward  when  he,  too,  had  achieved  the 
Holy  Grail  among  the  stout  knights  up  Camelot  way  "in 
the  dayes  of  Vther  pendragon  when  he  was  kynge  of  all 
Englond  and  so  regned."   With  true  British  reserve  he 


214    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

whispers  to  a  stranger  no  word  of  such  secrets  as  once 

he  confided  at  this  bridge  to  Dickens,  of  the  savagery 

and  cruelty  of  this  London  that  has  driven  so  many  of 

its  desperate  children  to  peace  within  his  sheltering 

arms,  — 

"  Mad  with  life's  history. 
Glad  to  death's  mystery 
Swift  to  be  hurled  — 
Anywhere,  anywhere. 
Out  of  the  world." 

Looking  from  one  of  these  bridges  on  the  proud, 
powerful,  self-suflBcient  city,  Wordsworth  was  once 
moved  to  exclaim  that  "earth  has  not  anything  to  show 
more  fair."  Certainly  it  has  few  things  to  show  more 
stirring  and  impressive,  few  to  move  the  heart  more 
profoundly,  few  that  in  achievement,  resourcefulness, 
and  power  embody  more  completely  to  men  of  to-day 
"The  grandeur  that  was  Rome." 


NAPLES 

8  P.M.   TO  9  P.M. 


NAPLES 

8    P.M.    TO   9   P.M. 

Drifting  lazily  of  a  summer  evening  over  the  Bay  of 
Naples  in  a  brown  old  fishing  felucca  with  a  friendly 
ancient  boatman  for  companion,  careless  of  time  or  di- 
rection; the  night  winds  soft;  the  moon  clear;  indolent 
boating-parties  in  joyous  relaxation  all  about;  languor- 
ous, plaintive  songs  of  Italy  near  by  and  far  away; 
Vesuvius  glorious  and  mysterious  in  the  purple  offing, 
and  the  gray  old  city,  touched  with  silver,  beaming  down 
from  all  her  crescent  hillsides,  —  here,  indeed,  is  the 
stuff  of  which  day  dreams  are  compounded !  Chimes  in 
shadowy  belfries  take  soft,  musical  notice  of  the  hour; 
and  my  thoughts  recede  with  those  fading  echoes  and 
retrace  the  bright  and  pleasant  stages  that  have  led  me 
this  evening  into  an  environment  of  such  charm  and 
romance. 

Thus,  then,  it  was.  Two  hours  ago,  as  I  loitered  along 
the  crowded  Via  Caracciolo  on  the  Bay  front  and 
watched  Neapolitan  Fashion  take  the  air,  I  again  en- 
countered my  Old  Man  of  the  Sea  at  his  landing-place, 
—  swarthy,  wrinkled  Luigi  of  the  hoop  earrings  and 
faded  blue  trousers  rolled  to  the  knees.   Little  was  he 


218    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

bothering  his  grizzled  head  over  the  frivolity  that  flut- 
tered above  him;  and  yet  it  was,  in  fact,  a  charming 
show.  Old  Luigi  makes  a  mistake,  in  my  opinion,  in 
ignoring  the  elegant  passeggiata;  for  afternoon  promen- 
ading on  the  Caracciolo  is  something  that  most  of 
Naples  will  do  more  than  lift  its  head  to  see.  Besides, 
what  an  attractive  setting  it  has!  The  boasted  park, 
the  Villa  Nazionale,  arrays  the  western  front  in  a  pleas- 
ant old  woods  of  broad  and  shady  trees,  along  the 
water  side  of  which  stretches  the  handsome  boulevard 
of  the  Caracciolo.  The  distinguishing  mark  is  thus  sup- 
plied to  divide  society  between  the  carriage  set  who 
hector  it  here  and  along  the  Villa's  winding  drives,  and 
those  lesser  lights  who  venture  to  raise  their  heads  secure 
from  snubs  in  the  promenading  spaces  under  the  trees 
and  before  the  cafes  and  bandstand.  With  the  latter, 
as  the  elders  salute  friends,  renew  acquaintances,  and 
exchange  civilities  with  jubilant  exclamations,  delighted 
shrugs,  and  storms  of  exultant  gestures,  the  younger 
men,  in  flannel  suits  and  foppish  canes,  flirt  desperately 
by  twirling  their  waxed  little  mustaches,  and  the  snappy- 
eyed  signorinas  respond  in  kind  by  a  subtle  and  discrete 
use  of  the  fan.  The  contemplative  promenader  will 
stroll  along  the  cool,  statue-lined  allees,  issuing  forth 
from  time  to  time  to  enjoy  the  brisk  music  of  the  band. 
The  hardened  idler  will  take  a  mean  delight  in  penetrat- 
ing the  retired  and  romantic  retreats  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  Psestum  Fountain  .and  thus  arousing  whole 


NAPLES  219 

coveys  of  indignant  lovers  who  have  regarded  this  region 
as  pecuHarly  their  own  from  time  immemorial;  in  the 
event  of  threatened  reprisals  the  disturber  can  seek 
sanctuary  in  the  renowned  Aquarium,  just  at  hand,  and 
there  spend  his  time  to  better  advantage  in  contemplat- 
ing octopi  and  sensitive  plants,  and  all  sorts  of  astonish- 
ing fishes.  But  the  real  show,  of  course,  is  en  voiture. 
With  a  clatter  and  dash  along  they  come:  The  jeunesse 
doree,  with  straw  hats  cocked  rakishly,  shouting  loudly 
to  their  horses  and  sawing  desperately  on  the  reins; 
young  beauties  in  the  latest  word  of  milliner  and  modiste 
loll  back  in  handsome  victorias,  reveling  in  the  sensa- 
tion they  are  creating,  and  with  great  black  eyes  flashing 
in  curious  contrast  to  the  studied  placidity  of  their  quiet 
faces;  consequential  senators  down  from  Rome;  fat  mer- 
chants trying  to  appear  at  ease;  and  all  the  usual  rem- 
nants of  the  fashionable  rout.  On  the  wide  sidewalks 
the  promenaders  proceed  leisurely  and  with  more  good- 
humored  democracy:  prim  little  girls  with  governesses; 
romping  schoolboys  in  caps  of  all  colors;  back-robed 
students;  long-haired  artisti;  and  priests  by  the  score 
strolling  sedately  and  gesturing  earnestly  with  dark, 
nervous  hands. 

To  all  this  brave  parade  Luigi  turns  a  blind  eye  and  a 
deaf  ear;  but  he  always  manages  to  see  me,  I  have  no- 
ticed. This  afternoon  his  programme  was  the  attractive 
one  of  a  sail  down  to  the  Cape  of  Posilipo  for  a  fish- 
dinner  at  a  rustic  little  ristorantiy  with  the  table  to  be 


220    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

spread  under  a  chestnut-tree  on  a  weathered  stone  ter- 
race at  the  water's  edge  where  the  spray  from  an  occa- 
sional wave-top  could  spatter  the  cloth  and  I  might 
fleck  the  ashes  of  my  cigar  straight  down  into  the  Bay. 
This  old  fellow  can  interest  any  one,  I  believe,  when 
he  wrinkles  up  into  his  insinuating  and  enthusiastic 
grin  and  plays  that  trump  card,  "And  after  dinner,  if  the 
signore  wish,  we  can  drift  about  the  Bay  or  sail  over 
toward  Capri  and  Sorrento."  Naturally,  this  is  my  cue 
to  enter.  Into  the  boat  I  go;  off  come  hat,  coat,  collar, 
and  tie,  and  up  go  sleeves  to  the  shoulder.  I  am  allowed 
the  tiller,  and  the  genial  old  fisherman  stretches  at  his 
ease  beside  the  slanting  mast  and  lights  a  long,  black, 
quill-stemmed  cheroot.  Now  for  comfort  and  romance 
and  all  the  delights  of  Buchanan  Read's  inspired  vision: 

"I  heed  not  if 

My  rippling  skiff 
Float  swift  or  slow  from  cliff  to  cliff;  — 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise." 

From  all  garish  distractions  our  little  boat  bore  us  in 
rippling  leisure  along  the  picturesque  Mergellina  front 
and  under  the  long,  villa-dotted  heights  of  the  Posilipo 
hillside,  whose  shadows  crept  slowly  out  on  the  waters 
as  Apollo  drove  his  flaming  chariot  beyond  the  ridge  to 
seek  the  dread  Sibyl  of  Cumse.  Nature  has  always  been 
partial  to  her  gay,  irresponsible  Naples,  and  this  after- 


THE    BAY    OF    NAPLES 


NAPLES  221 

noon  she  seemed  resolved  to  outdo  herself  in  clothing  it 
with  charm  and  beauty.  Under  the  setting  sun  the  entire 
sky  over  Posilipo  became  a  gorgeous  riot  of  crimson  and 
gold,  and  the  opposite  Vesuvian  shore  basked  with  in- 
dolent Oriental  listlessness  in  a  brilliant  deluge  that  pen- 
etrated the  deepest  recesses  of  its  vineyards  and  fruited 
terraces.  Through  this  magic  realm  of  richest  color  we 
floated  lightly,  silently  responsive  to  the  varying  phases 
of  the  calm  and  glorious  sunset  hour.  In  deepest  content 

"  my  hand  I  trail 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  sail." 

The  region  to  which  we  lifted  our  eyes  is  one  of  veritable 
poet-worship.  How  incredible  to  think  that  on  this  hill- 
side LucuUus  has  lived  and  Horace  strolled  and  Virgil 
mused  over  his  deathless  verse !  Look  again,  and  under  a 
clump  of  gnarled  old  trees  one  sees  the  latter's  venerated 
tomb.  Over  these  waters  came  the  pious  ^neas  with  his 
Trojan  galleys  to  question  the  Cumaean  Sibyl;  and  since 
the  age  of  fable  what  fleets  of  Carthage  have  passed 
around  Cape  Miseno,  what  barks  of  savage  pirates, 
what  brazen  triremes  of  Rome,  what  armadas  of  Spain 
and  navies  of  all  the  world !  It  staggers  the  mind  to  at- 
tempt to  recall  the  scenes  of  war  and  pillage  that  have 
been  enacted  under  the  frowning  brows  of  these  storied 
hills  during  the  last  three  thousand  years. 

The  wonderful  sail  was  all  too  brief,  and  almost  before 
I  was  aware  the  goal  was  at  hand,  and  I  stepped  ashore 


222     AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

at  the  ristoranti  approved  of  Luigi  and  entered  upon  the 
promised  joys.  It  was  all  as  he  had  predicted;  with  pos- 
sibly the  exception  of  a  few  details  he  had  discreetly 
neglected  to  warn  me  against.  That  it  required  four 
determined  efforts  and  a  threat  of  police  to  get  the 
proper  change  when  I  came  to  settle  the  bill  is  really 
no  jarring  memory  at  all.  It  is  the  usual  experience 
with  the  "forgetful "  Neapolitan  restaurant  keeper.  And 
what  are  foreigners  for,  anyway  .^^  And  was  it  not  worth 
something  extra  to  have  dined  face  to  face  with  this 
glittering  Bay,  with  the  panorama  of  Naples  on  one 
hand  and  a  sunset  over  Cape  Miseno  on  the  other?  So 
with  many  bows  and  mutual  civilities  I  parted  with  the 
zealous  boniface  and  rejoined  the  waiting  felucca.  A 
light  shove,  and  the  shadows  of  the  terrace  fell  behind  us 
and  we  were  out  again  on  the  Bay.  Such  are  the  alluring 
stages,  among  others,  that  may  bring  one  eventually  to 
an  evening's  moonlight  sail  at  Naples. 

Just  now  the  bells  rang  eight.  Luigi  grows  senti- 
mental. Again  he  declines  my  cigars,  stretches  at  his 
ease  and  produces  another  quilled  specimen  of  govern- 
ment monopoly  such  as,  when  at  home,  he  lights  at 
the  end  of  a  smouldering  rope  dangling  in  a  tobacco 
shop  of  the  Mercato.  In  the  gathering  gloom  one  sees 
little  now  of  the  trellised  paths  of  Posilipo,  the  white 
marble  villas  with  their  balconies  and  terraces,  or  the 
brilliant  clustering  roses  gay  against  the  glossy  green  of 
groves  of  lemons  and  oranges.   In  the  darkness  of  the 


NAPLES  223 

firs  each  cavern  and  grotto  of  this  legend-haunted  head- 
land disappears  and  one  can  barely  make  out  the  wave- 
washed  Rock  of  Virgil,  at  the  farthest  extremity, 
where,  the  Neapolitans  will  tell  you,  the  poet  was  wont 
to  practice  his  enchantments.  The  ruddy  sky  pales  over 
the  mouth  of  Avernus  and  the  Elysian  Fields,  and  Apollo 
abandons  us  to  Diana  and  the  broad  flecking  of  the  lights 
of  Parthenope.  We  swing  a  wide  circle  in  the  offing. 
Between  us  and  the  distant  rim  of  water-front  lamps 
hundreds  of  light  craft  are  idly  floating.  Romantic, 
pleasure-loving  Naples  has  dined  and  taken  to  the 
water,  to  cheer  its  heart  with  laughter  and  song.  Like 
glowworms  the  lights  of  the  little  boats  lift  and  sway 
with  the  movement  of  the  waves;  while  seaward,  the 
drifting  torches  of  fishermen  flare  in  search  of  frutti  di 
mare. 

Like  an  aged  beauty  Naples  is  at  her  best  by  night, 
when  the  ravages  of  time  are  concealed.  Lights  glitter 
brightly  along  the  shore  line  from  Posilipo  to  Sorrento 
and  all  over  the  hillsides,  and  even  beyond  Sant'  Elmo 
and  the  low  white  priory  of  San  Martino  the  pal- 
ace-crowned heights  of  Capodimonte,  where  the  paper- 
chases  of  early  spring  afford  so  much  diversion  to  the 
young  gallants  of  the  court.  Popular  restaurants  up  the 
hillsides  are  marked  by  groups  of  colored  lights.  A 
thick  spangle  of  lamps  proclaims  the  progress  of  some 
neighborhood  festa.  The  moon  is  full;  the  sky  brilliant 
with  enormous  stars.  In  the  distance  the  curling  smoke 


224    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

of  Vesuvius  glows  with  a  sultry  red  or  fades  fitfully  into 
gloomy  tones,  as  suits  that  imperious  will  which  three- 
score of  eruptions  have  rendered  absolute.  But,  as  all 
the  world  knows,  this  aged  beauty  of  a  city  that  "lights 
up"  so  well  by  night  is  far  from  "plain"  by  day.  Then 
appears  the  charm  and  distinction  of  the  original  way 
she  has  of  parting  her  hair,  as  it  were,  with  the  great 
dividing  rocky  ridge  that  runs  downward  from  Capo- 
dimonte  to  Sant'  Elmo  and  then  on  to  Pizzofalcone, 
"Rock  of  the  Falcon."  She  even  secures  a  coquettish 
touch  in  the  projecting  point,  like  an  antique  necklace 
pendant,  at  the  centre  of  her  double-crescented  shore, 
where  juts  a  low  reef  and  at  its  end  rests  the  ancient, 
blackened  Castello  dell'Ovo,  — on  a  magically  supported 
egg,  they  say,  —  the  accredited  theatre  of  so  many  ex- 
travagant adventures.  And  by  day  she  looks  down  in 
indolent  content  through  the  half-closed  eyes  of  ten 
thousand  windows  and  surveys  a  glorious  sea  of  milky 
blue,  brimming  tawny  curving  beaches  crowned  with 
white  villas  in  luxuriant  groves  and  vineyards,  expanding 
in  turquoise  about  soft  headlands  and  dim  precipices, 
and  bearing,  on  its  smooth,  restful  bosom  in  the  far, 
faint  offing,  magical  islands  of  pink  and  pearl  that  seem 
no  more  than  tinted  clouds. 

A  shoal  of  skiffs  hangs  under  the  black  hull  of  a  be- 
lated liner,  whose  rails  are  crowded  with  new  arrivals 
delighted  at  so  picturesque  and  enthusiastic  a  reception, 
and  whose  silver  falls  merrily  into  the  inverted   um- 


NAPLES  '225 

brellas  of  the  boys  and  girls  who  are  singing  and  dancing 
in  the  httle  boats  by  the  light  of  flaming  torches.  Very 
shortly  these  visitors  will  learn  that  the  interest  they 
excite  in  Neapolitans  is  to  be  measured  very  strictly 
in  terms  of  ready  cash.  Secretly,  they  will  be  despised. 
There  is  no  smile-hid  rapacity  comparable  with  that 
encountered  here.  The  incoming  steamer  has  not  yet 
warped  into  her  berth  before  the  Neapolitan  has  begun 
his  campaign  for  money.  Beggars  crawl  out  on  the  pier 
flaunting  their  hideous  deformities  and  wailing  for 
soldi,  and  insulting  cabmen  lie  in  ambush  at'  the  gates. 
At  no  other  port  does  a  foreigner  disembark  with  so 
much  embarrassment.  He  goes  ashore  feeling  like  a 
lamb  marked  for  the  shearing,  and  lives  to  fulfill  the 
expectation  with  humiliating  dispatch.  It  has  to  be 
admitted,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  customs-officers 
occasionally  catch  strange  flashes  of  transmarine  in- 
terests that  must  puzzle  them  not  a  little.  As  an  in- 
stance, the  first  person  to  land  from  the  steamer  I  was 
on  was  a  young  American  athlete  in  desperate  quest 
of  the  latest  daily  paper,  and  bent,  as  we  presumed, 
upon  securing  instant  word  of  some  matter  of  great  and 
immediate  importance.  He  succeeded;  but  what  was 
our  astonishment  to  behold  him  a  minute  later  leap  and 
shout  for  joy  and  announce  to  every  one  about  him  that 
Princeton  had  again  won  the  Yale  baseball  series  and 
remained  the  college  champions ! 

Naples,  to-night,  is  vibrant  with  song;  faithful  to  her 


226     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

ancient  myth  of  the  nymph  Parthenope,  whose  sweet 
singing  long  lured  men  to  destruction  until  Ulysses 
withstood  it  and  the  chagrined  goddess  cast  herself  into 
the  sea  and  perished  and  her  body  floated  to  these  shores. 
Parthenope's  children  here  do  not  destroy  people  by 
their  singing  now,  but  rather  delight  and  revitalize 
them.  Mandolins  and  guitars  are  throbbing  softly  on 
every  hand  and  the  old  familiar  songs  of  Naples  fill  the 
air.  "Traviata,"  "Trovatore,"  and  the  "Cavalleria" 
reign  prime  favorites.  To  be  sure,  there  is  no  escaping 
the  linked  sweetness  of  the  wailing  "Sa-an-ta-a  Lu- 
u-ci-a,"  nor  that  notion  of  perpetual  and  hilarious 
youth  conveyed  in  the  ubiquitous  "  Funiculi-Funi- 
cola."  In  martial  staccato,  as  of  old,  Margarita,  the 
love-lorn  seamstress,  is  jestingly  warned  against  Sal- 
vatore, — "  Mar-ga-n,  *e  perzo  a  Salvatore!''  — and  the 
skittish  "Frangese"  recites  for  the  millionth  time  the 
discouraging  experience  of  the  giddy  young  peddler 
who  undertook  to  barter  his  "pretty  pins  from  Paris" 
in  exchange  for  kisses  that  would  only  bring  "a  farthing 
for  five"  in  Paradise.  More  than  one  singer  is  deploring 
the  heartless  coquetry  of  "La  Bella  Sorrentina,"  while 
as  many  more  appeal  amorously  to  the  charming  Maria 
with  promises  of  "beds  of  roseleaves,"  — 

"Ah!   Maria  Mari! 
Quanta  suonna  che  perdo  pe  te!" 

We  take  an  aesthetic  interest  in  the  Pagliaccian  ravings 


NAPLES  227 

of  Canio,  and  grieve  for  the  "little  frozen  hands'*  of 
*'La  Boheme";  while,  by  way  of  contrast,  all  the  peace 
and  serenity  of  moonlight  comes  to  us  in  the  chaste, 
stately  measures  of  the  pensive  "Luna  Nova."  Seren- 
ades seem  twice  serenades  when  breathed  in  the  soft, 
lissome  dialect  of  Naples.  There  is  no  tiring  of  the 
impassioned  refrain  of  "Sole  Mio":  — 

"Ma  n'  atu  sole 

Cchiu  bello,  ohine, 
'O  sole  mio 

Sta  nfronte  a  te!" 

And  what  suflScient  word  can  be  said  of  the  lovely  "  'A 
Serenata  d'  'e  Rrose".'^  It  is  impossible  not  to  rejoice 
with  these  soulful  tenors  in  that 

"The  glinting  moonbeams  look  like  silver  pieces 
Flung  down  among  the  roses  by  the  breezes," — 

or  to  respond  to  the  plaintive  intensity  of  the  appealing 

cry:  — 

"Oj  rrose  meje!   Si  dorme  chesta  fata 
Scetatela  cu  chesta  serenata! " 

Like  old  Ulysses,  the  swift  little  felucca  soon  stops  its 
ears  to  these  fascinating  distractions,  and  bears  Luigi 
and  me  off  into  the  purple  darkness.  The  prison-capped 
rock  of  Nisida  drops  astern  with  all  its  august  memories 
of  Brutus  and  his  devoted  Portia,  and  its  repugnant 
ones  of  Queen  Joanna,  the  very  bad,  and  King  Robert, 
the  very  good.  In  the  moonht  path  the  distant  cliffs  of 


228    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Procida,  isle  of  romance  and  beauty,  loom  afar,  but  we 
distinguish  no  faintest  echo  of  the  bewildering  taran- 
tella music  that  is  danced  there  in  its  perfection. 
What  a  different  spectacle  its  observers  are  enjoying 
from  the  stale  perfunctory  performances  of  the  Sor- 
rento hotels,  which  the  tourists  see  at  two  dollars  a 
head.  For  the  tarantella,  well  done,  is  the  intensest  and 
most  expressive  of  dances.  All  the  emotions  of  the 
lover  and  his  coquettish  sweetheart  are  aptly  portrayed 
—  the  advances,  rebuffs,  encouragements,  shghts,  and 
final  triumph.  The  Procida  dance  is  a  revelation  when 
rendered  out  of  sheer  delight  —  con  amorey  as  the 
Italians  say. 

An  occasional  faint  light  marks  dissolute  Rome's 
favorite  place  of  revelry,  Baiae  the  magnificent.  In  its 
heyday  every  house,  as  we  read,  was  a  palace;  and  it 
has  been  said  that  every  woman  who  entered  it  a 
Penelope  came  out  a  Helen.  Through  their  faded  green 
blinds  no  light  may  be  seen  in  the  yellow  stone  houses 
of  neighboring  Puteoli  where  Paul,  Timothy,  and  Luke 
took  refuge  in  the  early  days  of  the  Faith.  Stolid  pagan 
Rome  had  httle  time  for  them,  considering  that  Cumse 
was  just  around  the  headland,  with  Daedalus  landing 
from  his  flight  from  Crete  and  the  frantic  Sibyl,  at  the 
very  jaws  of  Avernus,  screaming  her  "Dies  irse!  Dies 
ilia!" 

Distant  Ischia  appears  a  huge  ghostly  blot,  mysterious 
and  solemn.     Scarce  an  outline  can  be  caught  of  its 


NAPLES  229 

fabled,  crag-hung  castle,  chambered  as  the  very  nauti- 
lus and  eloquent  of  the  unhappy  Vittoria  Colonna.  How 
often  has  Michael  Angelo  climbed  with  sighs  that  old 
stone  causeway  where  now  the  fishermen  mend  their 
blackened  nets!  Ischia  never  wants  for  devotees,  how- 
ever, and  already  a  quarter-century  has  suflSced  to  dull 
the  horror  of  that  July  night  when  Casamicciola  paid  its 
quota  of  three  thousand  lives  to  the  dread  greed  of  the 
earthquake.  To-day  one  lingers,  undisturbed  by  such 
memories,  amidst  the  pretty  whitewashed  cottages  set 
in  olive  groves  and  vineyards,  loiters  among  the  pic- 
turesque straw  plaiters  of  Lacco,  or  dreams  to  the 
drowsy  tinkle  of  goat  bells  in  the  myrtle  and  chestnut 
groves  on  the  slopes  of  Mont'  Epomeo. 

Shadowy  Capri,  isle  of  enchantment,  lies  soft  and 
dim  off  the  Sorrento  headland  as  we  swing  our  little 
vessel  toward  the  city.  It  seems  only  a  delightful  dream 
that  a  few  mornings  ago  my  dejeuner  was  served  on  a 
cool  terrace  of  the  Quisisana  there,  and  that  I  looked 
down  over  the  coffee-urn  on  olive  groves  and  sloping 
hillsides  green  with  famous  vineyards.  With  joy  I  relive 
the  row  around  its  precipitous  shores,  the  eerie  swim  in 
the  elfland  of  the  Blue  Grotto,  the  drive  down  the  white, 
dusty  road  from  the  lofty  perch  of  Anacapri  to  the 
pebbly  beaches  of  Marina  Grande,  before  a  fascinating, 
unfolding  panorama  of  verdant  lawns,  fruited  terraces, 
snowy  villas,  and  bold  cliffs  crowned  with  fantastic  ruins. 
Sinister  Tiberius  and  his  unspeakable  companions  have 


230    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

small  place  in  our  permanent  memories  of  Capri;  one  is 
more  apt  to  recall  the  charming  blue  and  white  Virgin 
in  the  cool  grotto  beside  the  old  Stone  Stairs. 

A  faint  rim  of  lights  on  the  mainland  marks  Sorrento, 
and  a  patch  nearer  the  city,  Castellammare;  and  were 
we  nearer,  the  great  white  hotels  would  doubtless  be 
found  brilliant  and  musical.  Could  we  but  see  it  now, 
we  should  find  the  moonlit  statue  of  Tasso  in  the  little 
square  vastly  more  tolerable  than  by  day,  and  this 
would  be  a  pleasant  hour  to  spend  on  the  old  green 
bench  before  it  absorbed  in  stirring  thoughts  of  the 
"Gerusalemme  Liberata"  in  the  place  where  its  author 
was  born.  Monte  Sant'  Angelo  looms  above  Castallam- 
mare  spectre-like  in  night  shadows,  and  the  royal 
ilex  groves  must  be  taken  on  faith.  The  crested  hoopoes, 
crowned  of  King  Solomon,  have  long  been  asleep  on  the 
mountain-sides,  but  Italian  Fashion,  devoted  to  its 
Castellammare,  having  idled  and  rested  all  day  in  the 
bagni,  now  flirts  and  dances  at  the  verandaed  stahili- 
menti.  An  occasional  faint  breath  of  fragrance  recalls 
the  floral  luxuriance  that  is  so  notable  here  —  the 
gorgeous  scarlet  geraniums,  snowy  daturas,  cactus,  and 
aloe,  festoons  of  smilax,  and  the  carmine  oleanders 
that  they  call  "St.  Joseph's  Nosegay." 

Far  away  to  the  southeastward,  vague  and  ghostly 
headlands  are  dimming  toward  regions  of  rarest  beauty 
—  Amalfi,  Majori,  Cetara,  Salerno.  In  our  happy 
thoughts  the  smooth,  white  Corniche  road  lies  like  a 


NAPLES  231 

delicate  thread  along  the  green  mountain-sides,  — 
those  Mountains  of  the  Blest,  whose  rounded  brows 
home  the  nightingale,  whose  shoulders  are  terraces  of 
fruits  of  the  tropics  and  whose  storied  feet  rest  eternally 
on  white  beaches  that  glisten  in  the  blue  waters  of  a 
matchless  bay.  A  memory  this,  compounded  of  pebbly, 
curving  shores  sweeping  around  soft,  distant  headlands; 
lustrous  groves  of  pomegranates  and  oranges;  picturesque 
fishing  hamlets  of  little  stone  houses  nestled  away  in 
deep,  shady  inlets;  the  patter  and  shuflSe  of  barefooted 
women  trotting  steadily  through  the  dust  under  great 
hampers  of  lemons;  sunburned  workmen  singing  home- 
ward through  the  dusk;  the  shouts  and  laughter  of  bare- 
headed fishermen  drawing  their  red-bottomed  boats  up 
on  the  shore;  and  the  low,  contented  singing  of  your 
Neapolitan  coachman  who,  as  twilight  falls,  looks  long 
and  dreamily  out  to  sea  and  no  longer  cracks  his  whip 
over  the  weary  little  Barbary  ponies  that  are  drawing 
you  up  the  dusty  heights  toward  the  cool  rose-pergola 
of  the  Cappuccini.  Visitors,  reluctantly  departing,  will 
never  forget  this  land  "where  summer  sings  and  never 
dies,"  and  must  ever  after  feel  with  Longfellow:  — 

"  Sweet  the  memory  is  to  me 
Of  a  land  beyond  the  sea, 
Where  the  waves  and  mountains  meet. 
Where,  amid  her  mulberry-trees, 
Sits  Amalfi  in  the  heat, 
Bathing  ever  her  white  feet 
In  the  tideless  summer  seas." 


232    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

We  distinguish  Torre  Annunciata,  abreast  of  our 
speeding  boat,  by  the  evil  redolence  of  its  swarming 
fish  markets  and  the  boisterous  shouting  of  its  many 
children  at  mora;  and,  in  striking  contrast,  one  thinks 
of  grim  Pompeii,  farther  inland,  —  *'la  citta  morta,"  — 
hushed  and  prostrate  in  moonlit  desolation.  At  the 
neighboring  Torre  del  Greco  we  can  fancy  the  coral 
fishers,  who  may  not  yet  have  left  for  the  season's  diving 
off  Sicily,  to  be  smoking  black  cheroots  along  the 
wharves  and  planning  lively  times  when  they  market 
their  coral  and  Barbary  ponies  in  November.  Certainly 
there  is  little  to  suggest  the  peace  that  Shelley  found 
here.  Few  shores  are  more  dramatic  than  those  of  this 
Vesuvian  Campagna  Felice.  Resina  hangs  gloomily 
over  the  entrance  to  the  entombed  Herculaneum,  and 
Portici  lights  up  but  half-heartedly,  abashed  that  all 
her  royal  Bourbon  palaces  should  now  be  housing  only 
schoolboys.  About  both  villages  and  for  miles  inland 
any  one  may  see  the  wrath  of  Vesuvius  in  dismal  evi- 
dence in  twisted  lava  rock  of  weird  and  sinister  shapes. 
But  there  is  a  fullness  of  life  on  these  shores  to-night, 
increasing  as  our  boat  advances;  individual  houses 
multiply  into  villages,  and  villages  overlap  into  a  solid 
mass  that  is  Naples's  East  End.  We  pick  our  way  among 
the  clustering  boats,  and  around  long  piers  with  little 
lighthouses  at  their  ends,  and  presently  Luigi  abandons 
his  cheroot,  stands  up  by  the  mast  and  shouts  shrill 
and  mysterious  hails,  and  shortly  up  we  come  to  our 


NAPLES  233 

landing  at  a  flight  of  dripping  stone  steps  at  the  tatter- 
demahon  Villa  del  Popolo,  sea-gate  to  the  noisiest, 
dirtiest,  most  crowded  (and  so  most  characteristic)  sec- 
tion of  all  Naples.  A  passing  of  silver  from  me,  from 
Luigi  a  twisted  smile  and  a  regretful  "buon  riposo,"  — 
the  last,  I  fear,  that  I  shall  ever  hear  from  him,  —  and  I 
take  leave  of  my  amiable  companion  for  the  sputtering 
lights  and  exciting  diversions  of  the  swarming  Carmine 
Gate  and  Mercato.  From  the  tide-washed  Castello 
deir  Ovo  to  the  prison  heights  of  Sant'  Elmo  and  the 
charming  cloisters  of  San  Martino,  and  from  the  huts 
of  the  Mergellina  fishermen  to  far  beyond  where  I  am 
standing  on  the  eastern  front  of  the  city,  all  Naples  is 
sparkling  with  hghts  and  humming  with  an  intense  and 
multi-phased  tumult. 

Lucifer  falling  from  Paradise  must  have  experienced 
some  such  contrast  as  those  who  exchange  the  serene 
evening  beauty  of  the  Bay  of  Naples  for  the  odors,  up- 
roar, and  confusion  of  the  Mercato.  But  does  not  the 
saying  run,  "See  Naples  and  die".'^  And  to  miss  visiting 
so  characteristic  a  district  by  night  is  almost  to  fail  to 
see  "Naples  "  at  all;  though  it  may,  perhaps,  appear  at 
first  glance  to  assure  the  "and  die."  The  quay  of  Santa 
Lucia  is  the  only  other  section  that  even  attempts  to  rival 
this  in  preserving  unimpaired  the  "best"  traditions  of 
Neapolitan  uproar  and  picturesque  squalor.  And  it 
must  be  remembered  that  one's  interest  in  this  city  is 
like  that  felt  for  a  pretty,   bright,  and  amiable  child 


234    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

who  is,  at  the  same  time,  a  very  ragged  and  dirty  one. 
Life,  as  it  is  found  in  the  Mercato,  is  exuberance  in 
extenso;  the  most  complete  conception  possible  of  a 
**much  ado  about  nothing."  It  is  an  irrelevant  tu- 
mult in  which  matter-of-fact  inconsequences  are  ex- 
pressed with  an  incredibly  disproportionate  use  of 
shoulders,  fingers,  and  lungs.  An  inquiry  as  to  the  time 
of  day  is  attended  with  a  violence  of  gesticulation  ade- 
quate to  convey  the  emotions  of  Othello  slaying  Desde- 
mona;  an  observation  on  the  weather  involves  a  pound- 
ing of  the  table  and  a  wild  flourish  of  arms  like  the 
expiring  agony  of  an  octopus.  Even  work  itself  seems 
half  play  in  its  accompaniment  of  romantic  posturing, 
eloquent  and  profuse  gestures,  and  continual  over- 
bubbling  of  merriment,  quarrels,  and  song.  All  this 
is  of  the  very  essence  of  the  Mercato  —  hopelessly 
tattered  and  unkempt,  artlessly  unconscious  of  its 
picturesque  rags,  and  altogether  so  frankly  frowzy  and 
disheveled  as  to  become,  upon  the  whole,  positively 
charming.  No  one  equals  the  Neapolitan  in  expressing 
the  full  force  of  the  Scotch  proverb,  "Little  gear  the 
less  care." 

In  appearance  the  Mercato  is  a  rabbit-warren  of  tor- 
tuous chasms  lined  with  dowdy  structures  in  every 
advanced  stage  of  decrepitude.  Even  its  lumbering 
churches  of  Spanish  baroque  rather  add  to  than  detract 
from  this  effect.  No  money  is  squandered  on  upkeep. 
The  cost  of  initial  construction  is  here  like  an  author's 


NAPLES  235 

definitive  edition,  —  final.  Little,  cramped  balconies, 
innocent  of  paint,  blink  under  the  flapping  of  reed-made 
shades,  shop  signs  are  illegible  from  dirt  and  discolora- 
tion, and  the  weathered  house-fronts  shed  scales  of 
plaster  as  snakes  do  skins.  The  very  skies  are  overcast 
with  clouds  of  other  people's  laundry.  Dead  walls  flame 
with  lurid  theatre  posters,  unless  warned  off  by  the 
"post-no-bills"  sign  —  the  famihar  "e  vietata  I'affis- 
sione."  Cheap  theatres  are  completely  covered  with 
hfe-size  paintings  illustrating  scenes  from  the  play  for 
the  week.  Lottery  signs  abound.  Certain  window 
placards,  by  their  very  insistence,  eventually  become 
familiar  and  homelike;  as,  for  instance,  the  "first  floor 
to  let,"  the  omnipresent  "si  loca,  appartamento  grande, 
1°  primo,"  for  which  one  comes  in  time  to  look  as  for  a 
face  from  home.  Religion  contributes  a  garish  and  tawdry 
decorative  feature  in  the  little  gaudy  shrines  on  street 
corners  and  house-fronts,  where,  in  a  sort  of  shadow  box 
covered  with  glass,  candles  sputter  before  painted  saints. 
The  government  monopolies,  salt  and  tobacco,  the 
Siamese  Twins  of  Italy,  are  inseparable  with  their  ever- 
lasting "Sale  e  Tabacchi"  signs  and  dwell  together 
everywhere  on  a  common  and  friendly  footing,  like  the 
owls,  snakes,  and  prairie  dogs  in  Kansas. 

Curiosity  fairly  plunges  a  man  into  so  promising  a 
field,  and  Adventure  stalks  at  his  elbow.  He  finds  the 
narrow,  squalid  streets  brimming  with  a  restless,  noisy, 
nervous  swarm.    Picturesque  qualities  are  brought  out 


236    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

in  the  play  of  feeble  street  lamps  and  the  dejected,  half- 
hearted hghts  of  dingy,  cavernous  shops  and  eating- 
places.  A  comme  il  faut  costume  for  men  appears  to  be 
limited  to  trousers  and  shirt,  with  the  latter  worn  open 
to  the  belt.  The  women  affect  toilettes  of  a  general 
dirty  disarray  which  their  laudable  interest  in  the  life 
around  frequently  leads  them  absent-mindedly  to  ar- 
range in  the  quasi-retirement  of  the  doorways,  the  front 
sill  itself  being  reserved  for  the  popular  diversion  of 
combing  the  hair  of  their  spawn  of  half -naked  children. 
To  traverse  an  alley  and  avoid  stepping  on  some  rol- 
licking youngster  in  puris  naturalibus  is  vigorous  exer- 
cise of  the  value  of  a  calisthenic  drill.  Still,  it  is  possible 
to  escape  the  babies,  but  scarcely  the  fakirs  and  beggars. 
The  fakir  has  odds  and  ends  of  everything  to  sell  and 
teases  for  patronage  for  love  of  all  the  saints;  one  even 
awaits  the  Oriental  announcement,  "In  the  name  of 
the  Prophet,  figs!"  The  beggars,  of  course,  are  worse; 
crawling  across  your  path  and  dragging  themselves 
after  you  to  display  their  physical  damages,  often  self- 
inflicted,  in  quest  of  a  soldo  of  sympathy.  Express  com- 
passion in  other  than  monetary  terms  and  you  get  it 
back  instanter,  along  with  a  dazing  assortment  of 
vitriolic  maledictions.  As  the  visitor's  patience  gives 
way  under  the  strain,  it  presently  becomes  a  very  pretty 
question  as  to  whose  language  is  the  most  horrific,  his 
own  or  the  beggar's. 

Women  dodge  through  the  streets   carrying  great 


NAPLES  237 

bundles  on  their  heads,  and  pause  from  time  to  time  for 
friendly  greetings  with  frowzy  acquaintances  tilting  out 
of  the  upper  windows  where  the  laundry  hangs.  It  is 
from  these  mysterious  upper  windows  that  the  housewife 
in  the  morning  lowers  a  pail  and  a  bit  of  money  wrapped 
in  a  piece  of  newspaper,  and  bargains  with  the  leather- 
lunged  padulano  when  he  comes  loafing  along  beside  his 
panniered  donkey,  crying  his  wares  in  that  "carrying 
voice"  we  all  admire  in  our  opera  singers.  Those  are 
the  hours  of  trying  domestic  exaction,  when  the  woman 
who  does  not  care  for  water  in  the  milk  watches  the 
production  of  the  raw  material  with  the  cow  standing 
at  the  doorway,  or  from  the  frolicsome  goat  that  nimbly 
ascends  every  flight  of  stairs  to  the  very  portal  of  the 
combined  kitchen  and  sleeping-room.  But  just  now 
neighbors  are  shouting  conversations  in  those  same 
upper  windows,  or  calling  down  to  the  women  and  girls 
who  go  shuffling  along  on  the  lava  pavement  below  in 
wooden  sabots  that  look  like  bath-slippers  —  if,  indeed, 
one  has  imagination  enough  to  think  of  bath-slippers  in 
this  vicinity. 

Restless  activity  prevails.  The  most  unnatural  things 
are  the  statues,  chiefly  because  they  do  not  move.  One 
catches  glimpses  of  them  now  and  then  in  the  niches  of 
the  motley -marbled  churches,  —  churches  of  memories 
grave  and  gay,  of  Boccaccio's  first  glimpse  of  Fiammetta, 
or  the  slaying  of  the  young  fisherman-tribune,  Masa- 
niello,  whom  Salvator  Rosa  delighted  to  paint.   There 


238    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

is  buying  and  selling,  eating  and  drinking.  There  are 
fruit  stands  and  lemonade  stalls  and  macaroni  stores 
and  dejected  little  shops  with  festoons  of  vegetables 
pendent  from  the  smoky  ceilings  over  whose  home- 
painted  counters  weary  women  await  custom  with  babies 
in  their  arms.  A  brisk  demand  prevails  for  the  famous 
cheese-flavored  biscuit  called  "pizza,"  set  with  little 
powdered  fish,  and  those  who  desire  can  have  a  slice 
of  devilfish-tentacle  for  a  soldo,  which  the  purchaser 
dips  in  the  kettle  of  hot  water  and  devours  on  the  spot. 
Should  this  latter  fare  disagree  with  any  one,  there  will 
be  access  on  the  morrow  to  the  miracle-working  "La 
Bruna" — the  picture  of  the  Virgin  in  the  church  of 
St.  Mary  of  the  Carmine  —  which  every  child  in  Naples 
knows  was  painted  by  St.  Luke;  and  if  that  should  fail, 
there  is  still  the  liquefying  blood  of  St.  Januarius  in 
the  inner  shrine  of  the  cathedral. 

Happily,  the  senses  are  more  than  four;  and  when 
seeing,  smelling,  tasting,  and  feeling  fail  from  over-exer- 
tion in  the  Mercato,  still  hearing  remains,  so  that  one 
may  study  the  Sicilian-like  prattle  of  the  Neapolitan 
in  all  its  ramifications  from  a  whisper  to  a  shriek.  The 
character  of  the  man  is  expressed  along  with  it;  and  thus 
one  observes  that  while  a  Piedmontese  may  be  steady 
and  industrious,  a  Venetian  gossipy  and  artistic,  a 
Tuscan  reserved  and  frugal,  and  a  Roman  proud  and 
lordly,  the  Neapolitan  is  merry,  loquacious,  generous, 
quarrelsome,  superstitious,  and,  too  frequently,  vicious. 


NAPLES  239 

Thus  the  Mafia  flourishes  with  him,  and  the  Camorra, 
an  unbegrudged  possession,  is  wholly  his  own.  His 
vendetta  may,  perhaps,  be  mildly  defended  on  the  ground 
that  it  is,  at  least,  only  a  personal  affair,  and  certainly  less 
foohsh  and  reprehensible  than  the  perennial  jealousy  of 
an  entire  people,  as,  for  example,  the  ancient  feud 
between  Florence  and  Siena,  where  an  inherited  an- 
tagonism is  still  devoutly  cherished  and  the  old  battle 
of  Montaperti  refought  with  fury  every  morning.  The 
Neapolitan  had  rather  spend  that  time  on  the  lottery, 
dream  his  lucky  numbers,  look  them  up  in  his  dream- 
book,  and  go  to  the  Saturday  afternoon  drawings  with 
a  fresh  and  stimulating  interest  in  life. 

It  is  a  nice  question  whether  the  Mercato  loves  sing- 
ing best,  or  eating  —  when  it  can  get  it.  At  night  one 
inclines  to  the  latter  view.  There  is  a  prodigious  hub- 
bub around  all  the  open-air  cooking-stoves  and  in  every 
smoky  trattoria  and  family  eating-place.  One  would 
scarcely  hazard  an  opinion  as  to  the  number  of  bowls  of 
macaroni,  quantities  of  polenta,  and  whole  nations  of 
snails  and  frogs  that  are  being  devoured  between  appre- 
ciative gestures  and  puffs  of  cigarettes,  and  washed  down 
unctiously  with  minestra  soup  and  watery  wines.  But 
as  all  these  good  people  have  probably  breakfasted  solely 
on  dry  bread  and  black  coffee,  no  one  would  think  of 
begrudging  them  the  delight  they  are  taking  in  dining 
so  gayly  and  at  so  modest  an  outlay.  If  stricter  economy 
becomes  necessary  later,  they  will  patronize  the  charity 


240    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

"kitchens,"  where  soup,  vegetables,  meat,  and  wine 
are  supphed  at  cost,  or  perhaps  some  friend  will  give 
them  a  voucher  and  they  will  be  able  to  get  it  all  for 
nothing. 

So  far  as  economy  is  concerned,  they  know  all  there 
is  to  be  learned  on  the  subject.  Several  families  of  them 
will  live  in  a  single  room;  and  when  that  room  is  the 
damp,  foul  cellar  they  call  fondaco,  it  is  something  one 
does  not  care  to  think  of  a  second  time.  When  they  in- 
dulge in  street-car  riding  they  never  neglect  to  take  the 
middle  seats,  because  they  are  the  cheapest.  They  know 
all  about  the  market  for  restaurant  scraps  and  cigar 
stumps,  where  quotations  are  governed  by  length. 

Their  extraordinary  generosity  to  one  another  in 
times  of  distress  is  almost  proverbial.  Misery  both  fas- 
cinates and  touches  them,  perhaps  because  it  is  never 
very  far  from  their  own  doors.  One  morning  I  shoul- 
dered my  way  into  the  middle  of  a  strangely  silent  crowd 
and  found  there  a  weeping  crockery  vender  whose  entire 
stock  in  trade  had  been  demolished  by  some  mishap.  It 
meant  his  temporary  ruin,  as  could  be  seen  from  the  faces 
of  the  painfully  silent  and  sympathetic  audience.  The 
peddler  seemed  utterly  stunned  by  his  misfortune  and 
lay  on  the  ground  with  his  face  in  his  arms.  How  touch- 
ing it  was  to  see  the  little  cup  that  some  one  had  signifi- 
cantly set  beside  him,  and  to  know  that  every  copper- 
piece  that  fell  into  it  came  from  Poverty's  Very  Self, 
and   bore   the  message,  "It's  hard,  poor  fellow;   we 


NAPLES  241 

know  how  hard;  but  here's  a  httle  something  —  try 
again." 

But,  as  Thomas  Hardy's  peasants  say,  it  is  time  to  go 
"home-along."  Emerging  from  the  noisy  congestion  of 
the  Mercato  the  quiet  and  cool  of  the  water  front  is 
rather  more  than  refreshing.  The  shipping  along  the 
Strada  Nuova  stands  out  stately  and  picturesque,  sil- 
vered toward  the  moon  and  black  in  the  dense  shadows. 
Harbor  lights  sparkle  brightly  under  the  solemn  eye 
of  the  molo  lighthouse.  The  military  pier  points  a  long, 
black  finger  warningly  toward  Vesuvius.  Along  the 
Strada  del  Piliero  one  has  pleasant  choice  of  viewing 
on  the  left  the  animated  steamer  piers  and  the  secure 
anchorage  where  the  great  ships  for  Marseilles  and  the 
Orient  tug  mildly  at  their  hawsers,  or  seeing  on  the  right 
the  ceaseless  activity  of  swarming  little  streets,  some 
glowing  in  arbors  of  colored  lights  in  celebration  of  a 
neighborhood  festa  and  others  observing  a  milder  form 
of  the  same  noisy  programme  we  have  just  forsaken. 
On  the  broad  Piazza  del  Municipio  the  massive  and 
heavy-towered  Castello  Nuovo  rears  a  sombre  and 
storied  front;  and  farther  along  we  pass  the  vast  gray 
bulk  of  the  famous  Teatro  San  Carlo  and  the  lofty 
crossed-arcade  of  the  Galleria  Umberto  I,  and  skirting 
the  corner  of  the  Royal  Palace  enter  the  broad  and 
brilliant  Piazza  del  Publiscito. 

Contrasts  again!  What  a  different  crowd  from  that 
of  the  poor  Mercato.  Here  is  a  groomed  and  well-con- 


242    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

ducted  multitude  that  has  come  out  to  enjoy  its  coffee 
and  cigarettes  as  it  Hstens  to  the  band  in  the  pavihon 
on  the  western  side  or  the  open-air  melodrama  in  that 
on  the  east.  And  what  a  change  in  surroundings !  Pal- 
aces and  splendid  churches  and  public  buildings,  now. 
Solemn  effigies  of  departed  kings  stare  stonily  down  from 
niches  in  the  moonlit  fagades.  A  fringe  of  dark-eyed 
boys  lounges  in  indolent  content  around  the  coping  of  a 
fountain.  Hundreds  of  chairs  and  tables  throng  the  open 
space,  and  we  gladly  rest  on  one  of  them  and  experiment 
with  Nocera  and  lemon  juice,  preparatory  to  a  good- 
night stroll  up  the  Toledo.  Enthusiasm  prevails  here, 
too.  Familiar  melodies  from  the  old  operas  are  wel- 
comed with  storms  of  applause  and  shouts  of  "Bravo" 
or  "Bis "; whereupon  the  conductor  bows  profound  grati- 
fication and  selects  the  music  for  the  next  number  with 
a  face  glowing  with  pride.  Politeness  abounds.  The  air 
is  gracious  with  "grazie,"  and  like  expressions  of  cour- 
tesy. Ask  a  light  for  your  cigar,  and  the  Neapolitan 
raises  his  hat  and  thanks  you,  supplies  the  match,  raises 
his  hat  and  thanks  you  again,  though  all  the  while  he  has 
been  doing  the  service.  Indeed,  he  seems  capable  of 
expressing  more  civility  by  a  touch  of  the  hat  than  we 
can  by  completely  doffing  ours.  One  looks  about  and 
concludes  that  the  women  are  not  particularly  pretty 
and  that  good  dressing  is  a  lost  art  with  them.  The  men, 
as  a  rule,' impress  one  more  favorably;  though  they  are 
perversely  inclined  to  spoil  their  good  looks  by  waxing 


NAPLES  243 

their  mustaches  to  a  needle-point  and  trimming  their 
long  beards  square,  hke  bas-rehefs  of  Assyrian  kings. 

It  is  nearly  nine  o'clock.  I  settle  for  my  drink,  leave 
the  usual  centesimi  with  the  bowing  waiter,  and  plunge 
into  the  Broadway  of  Naples,  the  renowned  Toledo. 
Its  map-name  is  Via  Roma,  but  the  "Toledo"  it  has 
been  for  ages  and  as  such  it  will  remain  to  many  Neapol- 
itans to  the  end  of  time.  It  is  a  busy  and  peculiar 
street.  Rows  of  raised  awnings  in  two  long,  converging 
lines  dress  the  feet  of  tall,  dark  buildings  that  are  studded 
with  shallow  iron  balconies  filled  with  pots  of  flowers. 
It  is  comparatively  narrow  and  with  sadly  straitened 
sidewalks,  but  no  street  in  Naples  is  so  long  or  so  con- 
tinually used;  if  it  is  followed,  through  all  its  changes 
of  names,  it  will  carry  one  past  the  Museo  and  away 
up  to  the  very  doors  of  the  summer  palace  at  Capodi- 
monte,  running  due  north  all  the  way.  Shops  of  all 
descriptions  line  it,  and  it  is  thronged  to  the  overflow  of 
the  sidewalks  and  the  hysterical  abuse  of  distracted 
cabmen  in  the  middle  of  the  street.  One  thinks  of 
Paris  when  he  sees  the  newspaper  kiosks  and  the  many 
bright  little  stands  decked  out  with  fruit  and  gay  trifles. 
The  shops  satisfy  any  taste  and  any  purse,  for  it  is  the 
common  gathering-ground  of  Naples. 

It  is  vastly  diverting  to  step  aside  and  take  note  of 
the  varieties  of  people  that  troop  along  this  brilliant 
highway.  One  sees  jaunty  naval  cadets  from  Leg- 
horn; street  dandies  in  white  duck  and  tilted  Panamas; 


244    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

delivery  boys  in  long  blue  blouses;  tattered  and  bare- 
headed bootblacks,  with  sleeves  rolled  up  in  business 
fashion;  artisti  in  greasy  coats;  minor  government  offic- 
ials in  spectacles  and  rusty  black,  trying  to  be  rakish 
on  four  hundred  dollars  a  year;  sub-lieutenants,  with 
their  month's  thirty  dollars  in  hand,  off  to  lose  it  at 
cards  at  some  circolo;  swarthy  contadini,  the  farmer 
"Rubes"  of  Italy,  having  disposed  of  their  poultry  and 
their  wives'  straw  plaiting,  are  here  "doing  the  town"; 
groups  of  impoverished  laborers  from  near-by  estates, 
lamenting  with  despairing  gestures  the  impending  fail- 
ure of  the  olive  crop  and  charging  it  to  ghosts  and  the 
evil  eye;  venders  of  coral  and  tortoise  shell;  resplendent 
Carabinieri  in  pairs,  fanning  themselves  with  their  pic- 
turesque chapeaux;  thrifty  policemen  pursuing  street 
peddlers,  with  an  eye  to  a  per  centum  of  the  fines; 
heroic  school-ma'ams,  trying  to  forget  that  their  miser- 
able one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  per  annum  is  not 
likely  to  save  them  from  such  distress  as  De  Amicis  tells 
of  in  his  impressive  "Romanzo  d'  un  Mestro";  that  odd 
military  rara  avis,  the  Bersagliero,  pruning  his  glossy 
feathers  and  looking  quite  equal  to  a  trot  to  Posilipo 
and  back;  rioting  students,  still  unreconciled  to  having 
been  "ploughed"  at  the  recent  examinations,  or  having 
failed  of  the  coveted  laurea  degree  when,  frock-coated 
and  nervous,  they  discussed  their  theses  unsuccessfully 
before  the  jury  of  examiners;  the  pompous  syndic  of 
some  commune;  priests  in  black  cassocks  and  fuzzy. 


NAPLES  245 

broad-brimmed  hats;  some  prefect  returning  from  a 
many-coursed  dinner,  intent  upon  political  coups  when 
the  Government's  candidates  come  up  for  election;  and, 
most  dejected  and  dangerous  of  all,  the  unemployed 
men  of  education,  the  spostati,  who  will  hunt  govern- 
ment jobs  while  there  is  any  hope  and  then  turn  Social- 
ists in  Lombardy  or  Camorristi  in  Naples. 

All  along  the  way  the  soda  fountains  are  sputtering 
and  the  *'  American  Bars"  bustling.  Bookstores  fascin- 
ate here,  as  everywhere,  and  shining  leather  volumes 
cry  out  for  attention  in  the  names  of  D'  Annunzio,  De 
Amicis,  Verga,  and  Fogazzaro.  "IlTrionfo  della  Morta" 
lifts  its  slimy  head  on  every  counter,  side  by  side  with 
the  breezy  Neapolitan  stories  of  Signora  Serao.  I  always 
look  curiously,  but  so  far  unsuccessfully,  to  find  a  single 
bookstore  window  that  does  not  contain  that  national 
family  table  ornament,  the  "I  Promessi  Sposi"  of 
Manzoni  —  the  man  for  whom  Verdi  composed  the 
immortal  Requiem  Mass. 

The  Toledo  tide  runs  northward  for  twenty  blocks  or 
so  from  where  we  entered  it,  swings  around  the  marble 
statue  of  Dante  in  the  poet's  piazza,  and  sets  south 
again.  At  nine  o'clock  it  begins  to  diverge  into  the 
Strada  di  Chiaja,  where  there  is  music  and  promenading 
until  midnight. 

Detecting  this  hint  of  the  hour,  I  hail  a  venerable, 
loose-jointed  cab  and  bargain  to  be  taken  to  my  great, 
sepulchral,  marble-floored  room  on  the  Corso  Vittorio 


246    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Emmanuele.  Now,  cabs  are  cheap  in  Naples  —  after 
you  have  paid  a  penalty  of  extortion  for  the  first  few 
days'  experience;  the  real  expense  concerns  the  tailor  as 
much  as  the  cabman,  in  wear  and  tear  to  clothing,  try- 
ing to  keep  on  the  seat  as  you  bounce  along  over  these 
volcanic-block  pavements.  This  evening  the  cabman 
starts  the  usual  trouble  by  demanding  threefold  the 
legal  fare,  and  as  we  work  it  down  to  the  tariff  rate  he 
insults  me  pleasantly  and  volubly,  and  I  try  to  do  as 
well  by  him.  At  length  we  arrive  at  a  quasi-satisfactory 
basis;  he  shrugs  contemptuous  acceptance  of  my  terms 
and  I  relax  to  the  point  of  conceding  that  his  ponies 
are  only  a  little  worse-groomed  than  the  average  and 
have,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  all  the  mountainous  brass 
fixtures  prescribed  by  custom,  along  with  the  coral  horn 
that  will  save  me  from  the  evil  eye.  So  in  I  clamber. 
There  is  an  infantry  volley  of  whip-cracking  and  a  burst 
of  wild  invective  at  the  obstructing  crowd  and  my  head 
snaps  back  with  sufficient  force  to  keep  me  quiet  to  the 
journey's  end. 

On  the  pleasant  little  balcony  of  my  room  I  dare  not 
linger  long  to-night.  Well  I  know  the  busy  programme 
of  the  departure  on  the  morrow.  There  will  be  a  hurried 
stop  for  one  last  hasty  look  into  the  Museo,  with  my 
luggage  on  the  waiting  cab  outside;  then,  at  my  urgent 
"Fa  presto,"  some  reckless  Jehu  will  rattle  me  over  the 
stones  to  the  station;  I  will  go  down  into  my  pocket 
again,  in  the  old  familiar  way,  for  seventy  centesimi  and 


NAPLES  247 

an  additional  pourboire  to  the  cabby;  and  twenty  more 
for  the  spry  old  porter  who  will  shoulder  my  grips  into 
the  smoker;  and  the  conductor  will  blow  a  horn,  and  the 
station  bell  will  ring,  and  the  engineer  will  blow  a  whistle, 
—  in  their  rare  Italian  manner,  —  and  the  wheels  will 
begin  to  squeak  and  groan,  and  I  shall  be  off  for  Rome. 
And  that  is  why  a  cigar  lacks  its  usual  solace  on  my 
balcony  to-night;  the  last  I  am  to  smoke  in  Good  Night 
to  this  fascinating  city.  The  subdued  hum  of  cheery, 
happy  revelry,  mingled  with  music  and  song,  drifts  up 
from  the  bright  squares  and  animated  streets.  The 
minutes  multiply  as  I  dwell  over  the  varying  phases  of 
old  Vesuvius,  or  gaze  long  and  lingeringly  over  the  star- 
lit Bay  and  all  the  romantic  playground  of  these  grown- 
up children.  One  cannot  bring  himself  to  say  a  definite 
farewell  to  this  beautiful  Region  of  Revisitors.  With  a 
yearning  hope  of  returning  some  other  day,  he  moder- 
ates it  to  a  heartfelt  Good  Night  and  a  tentative  "till  we 
meet  again":  — 

"A  rivederci,  Napoli!  Benedicite  e  buon  riposo!" 


HEIDELBERG 

9   P.M.    TO   10  P.M. 


HEIDELBERG 

9  P.M.   TO   10  P.M. 

There  stands  an  ancient  castle 
On  yonder  mountain  height. 
Where,  fenced  with  door  and  portal. 
Once  tarried  steed  and  knight. 

But  gone  are  door  and  portal. 
And  all  is  hushed  and  still; 
O'er  ruined  wall  and  rafter 
I  clamber  as  I  will. 

Goethe's  "  Castle  on  the  Mountain." 

When  the  sun  has  gone  down  behind  the  Blue  Alsatian 
Mountains  and  the  last  stain  of  color  has  faded  from  the 
skies  of  the  Rhenish  plain,  when  clock  tower  has  an- 
swered clock  tower  and  evening  bell  responded  to  even- 
ing bell  from  the  mountain  streams  and  mill  wheels  of 
the  Odenwald  to  the  busy  squares  of  Mannheim,  then 
the  quiet  and  gentle  valley  of  the  Neckar  takes  on  a 
peculiar  peace  and  glory  that  is  exquisite  and  marvel- 
ous, and  Heidelberg  and  its  lordly  ruins  seem  set  in  a 
veritable  fairy-ring  of  delicate  charm  and  beauty.  So 
tranquil  and  lovely  is  this  region  in  the  early  evening 
that  even  the  latest  comer  soon  feels  a  comforting  sense 
of  having  turned  aside  from  out  of  the  rush  and  fever  of 


252    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

life  into  a  singularly  placid  and  protected  corner  of 
earth,  a  hushed  and  happy  Vale  of  Tempe.  This  sense  of 
rest  and  seclusion  is  one  of  Heidelberg's  strongest  appeals 
—  and  her  appeals,  though  few,  are  all  emphatic.  For 
there  are  no  "sights"  here,  the  castle  excepted.  The 
quaint  old  town  is  friendly  and  genial,  though  not  more 
so  than  many  others  of  this  comfortable  German  father- 
land; nor  is  the  serene  Neckar  so  exceptional  as  to  occa- 
sion pilgrimage. 

Heidelberg's  appeals  are  to  the  mind,  the  heart,  and 
the  senses:  the  mind  is  inspired  by  her  impressive 
achievements  in  learning;  the  heart  is  touched  by  her 
tragic  history;  and  the  senses  are  spellbound  by  the 
exceptional  charm  of  her  natural  beauty.  She  is  never 
so  fair  as  in  the  early  evening.  With  the  soft  fall  of 
night  each  blemish  fades  away,  and  what  remains  to 
see  and  feel  is  altogether  rare  and  lovely. 

When  the  valley  clocks  are  booming  nine  with 
muffled  strokes  it  is  delightful  to  be  up  in  the  castle's 
ruins,  lounging  on  the  Great  Balcony  of  the  crumbling 
Friedrich  Palace,  with  a  broad  coping  for  a  seat  and 
the  rustling  ivy  of  the  hollow  walls  for  a  pillow.  Behind 
and  about  one  is  the  vast,  ruddy  wreckage  of  the  knightly 
halls  and  towers  of  this  far-famed  "Alhambra  of  Ger- 
many," and  fluttering  plains  of  tree-tops  are  billowing 
upward  on  every  hand  to  the  dark  heights  of  the  Konigs- 
stuhl.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  valley,  across  the 
river,  dense  forests  of  oak  and  chestnut  glitter  in  the 


HEIDELBERG,    FROM    THE    CASTLE    TERRACE 


HEIDELBERG  253 

moonlight,  sweeping  aloft  to  the  summit  of  the  storied 
Saints'  Mountain.  Just  below  our  balcony  the  clustered 
spires  and  steep  roofs  of  the  huddled  old  town  house  their 
fifty  thousand  happy  people  between  the  wooded  hillsides 
and  the  shimmering  Neckar  that  bands  the  middle  dis- 
tance, on  its  placid  Rhine  journey,  like  a  silver  ribbon 
on  a  velvet  cloak.  In  its  bright  waters  hills  and  trees  are 
luminously  mirrored,  along  with  the  inky,  motionless 
shadows  of  its  bridges  and  the  sober  reflections  of  shut- 
tered house-fronts  along  its  verge. 

In  the  dewy  coolness  and  still  of  evening  the  guardian 
oaks  breathe  a  recurrent  lullaby  —  now  softly  agitated, 
now  as  hushed  and  ghostly  and  motionless  as  the  hills 
in  which  they  are  rooted ;  and  one  understands  how  such 
a  soothing  environment  could  have  softened  even  the 
impetuous,  fiery,  war-loving  young  Korner  to  indite 
so  gentle  a  benediction  as  his  beautiful"  Good  Night" : — 

"Goodnight! 
To  each  weary,  toilworn  wight. 
Now  the  day  so  sweetly  closes, 
Every  aching  brow  reposes 
Peacefully  till  morning  light. 
Good  night. 

"Home  to  rest! 
Close  the  eye  and  calm  the  breast; 
Stillness  through  the  streets  is  stealing, 
And  the  watchman's  horn  is  pealing, 
And  the  Night  calls  softly  '  Haste! 
Home  to  rest!'" 


254    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Up  in  the  castle  ruins  one  is  seldom  alone  before  mid- 
night, and  not  even  then  if  the  melancholy  spectre  of 
Rupert's  Tower  is  disposed  to  walk  abroad.  In  the  early 
evening  the  good  people  of  Heidelberg,  kindliest  and 
most  contented  of  Germans,  stroll  with  vast  delight 
under  the  lindens  of  the  castle  gardens,  and  groups  of 
careless  students  loiter  merrily  along  the  terraces,  add- 
ing bright  touches  of  color  with  their  peaked  caps  and 
broad  corps  ribbons.  Bits  of  song  and  bursts  of  laughter 
give  a  homely  suggestion  of  habitation  to  these  staring 
walls;  one  could  fancy  the  dead-and-gone  old  nobles  at 
wassail  again,  with  minstrels  in  the  banquet  hall,  and 
Perkeo,  the  jester,  whispering  jokes  in  the  ear  of  the 
Count  Palatine. 

"Under  the  tree-tops,"  sang  Goethe,  "is  quiet  now.'* 
There  is  a  low  sad  sound  of  night  breeze  in  the  ivy;  a 
swallow  darts  through  a  paneless  window;  a  bat  zig- 
zags among  the  echoing  arches  of  a  tower.  Like  phan- 
tom sentinels  the  stone  statues  of  the  old  electors  stand 
white  and  impressive  in  niches  on  the  palace  fronts. 
Fragrance  of  flowers  drifts  in  from  the  castle  gardens  and 
the  delicate  plash  of  falling  water  comes  from  a  ter- 
race fountain.  The  lamps  of  the  city  rim  the  river  below, 
and  villas  beyond  the  farther  bank  are  marked  by  tiny 
dots  of  lights  in  the  purple  of  the  groves  behind  Neuen- 
heim.  Across  the  Neckar-cut  gulf  of  shadow  the  chest- 
nut-crowned summit  of  the  Heiligenberg  stares  down 
solemnly  at  us,  and  not  all  the  songs  of  its  blithest 


HEIDELBERG  ^55 

nightingales  can  banish  thoughts  of  its  ancient  Roman 
sacrifices  nor  divert  the  credulous  from  vigils  over  the 
blue  grave  lights  around  the  Benedictine  cloister  where 
they  buried  the  sainted  Abbot  of  Hirschau.  Up  through 
the  dark  billows  of  this  tree-top  ocean  rises  a  strain  of 
Wagner's  music  from  some  cheery,  hidden  woodland 
inn  ^  and  under  the  magic  spell  of  the  night  one  could 
fancy  the  golden-haired  Siegfried  approaching  on  a  new 
Rhine  Journey,  following  the  winding  Neckar  up  the 
broad  Rhenish  plain;  the  Tarnhelm  is  at  his  belt,  the 
World-Warder  Ring  on  his  finger,  and  the  moonlight 
flashes  dreadfully  from  the  glittering  blade  of*  Nothung" 
as  the  hero's  horn  winds  note  of  arrival  under  the  walls 
of  our  stout  castle! 

It  is  especially  at  such  an  hour  as  this  that  one  realizes 
how  easy  it  is  for  the  man  who  thoroughly  knows  Heidel- 
berg to  acknowledge  a  delightful  and  lifelong  bondage. 
A  large  number  of  the  most  eminent  literati  of  the  world 
have  agreed  in  this.  Goethe  ascribed  to  her  "ideal 
beauty."  Macaulay  pronounced  her  environment  "one 
of  the  fairest  regions  of  Europe,"  The  father  of  Ger- 
man poetry,  Martin  Opitz,  loved  her  dearly  in  his  stud- 
ent days  here,  three  centuries  ago,  and  wrote  affec- 
tionately of  her  all  the  rest  of  his  life.  The  prolific  Tieck 
found  time  between  novels  to  lament  the  destruction  of 
a  few  of  her  oaks.  Alois  Schreiber  turned  from  his  poetry 
and  history  to  grieve  over  the  loss  of  a  lime-tree.  Von 
Scheffel  praised  her  in  prose  and  verse  and  hailed  her 


25Q    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

in  seven  songs  of  his  "  Gaudeamus."  La  Fontaine  could 
not  conceive  of  more  ideal  surroundings  in  which  to  re- 
unite his  "  Clara  du  Plessis  " and  her  devoted  "  Clairant." 
G.  P.  R.  James,  in  his  favorite  romance  "Heidelberg," 
wrought  prodigies  of  sentimentality  here  with  the  heroic 
"Algernon  Grey"  and  the  emotional  "Agnes."  Mat- 
thisson  immortalized  himself  by  his  "Elegie"  in  these 
ruins.  All  who  have  read  Alexandre  Dumas's  dramatic 
"Crimes  Celebres"  will  recall  the  young  fanatic,  Karl 
Ludwig  Sand,  and  his  assassination  of  the  poet,  Kotze- 
bue,  in  our  neighboring  city  of  Mannheim,  but  they 
may  not  have  heard  of  how  Kotzebue  once  said:  "If  an 
unhappy  individual  were  to  ask  me  what  spot  to  live 
in  to  get  rid  of  the  cares  and  sorrows  which  pursue  him, 
I  should  say  Heidelberg;  and  a  happy  one  asks  me  what 
spot  he  would  choose  to  adorn  with  fresh  wreaths  the 
joys  of  his  life,  I  should  still  say  Heidelberg." 

Goethe  loved  the  Neckar,  and  scarcely  less  its  famous 
old  bridge.  In  an  interpretative  mood  he  once  ob- 
served, "The  bridge  shows  itself  in  such  beauty  as  is 
perhaps  not  to  be  equaled  by  any  other  in  the  world." 
And,  indeed,  it  is  an  easy  thing  to  divide  enthusiasm  be- 
tween bridge  and  river.  Nothing  is  jollier  than  loafing 
against  the  broad  balustrades  of  this  solid  old  veteran, 
as  the  students  love  to  do,  and  lazily  take  note  of  the 
river's  tinted  reflections,  the  ripple  and  eddy  about  the 
piers,  the  mirroring  of  the  arches  in  perfect  reverse,  and 
watch  the  deep  green  shadows  of  the  hills  creep  out  and 


HEIDELBERG  257 

steal  across.  Great  rafts  come  downstream  laden  with 
the  output  of  the  Odenwald  and  Black  Forest,  and  swift 
steamers  hurry  under  the  massive  arches  bound  up- 
stream for  the  mountain  towns  or  downward  to  Mann- 
heim. Ferries  ply  beside  it,  fishermen  drift  beneath  it, 
and  throngs  of  townspeople  and  countrymen  stroll 
along  it,  with  now  and  then  a  be-petticoated  peasant 
girl  from  the  Odenwald  whose  fair  hair  is  hidden  under 
a  huge  black  coif.  How  redolent  it  is  of  Rhenish  life! 
One  lingers  beside  the  great  statue  of  its  builder,  the 
old  Elector,  and  gazes  with  unwearying  satisfaction 
on  the  strange  mediaeval  gateway,  loopholed  and  port- 
cullised,  and  wonders  where  two  other  such  queer  round 
towers  can  be  found  with  such  odd  bell-shaped  capitals 
and  such  slender  little  spires.  Terrible  and  tragic  expe- 
riences have  befallen  this  sturdy  old  hero,  and  its  an- 
tique towers  are  pitted  from  the  riddling  of  French  and 
Swedish  and  German  bullets.  Fire  has  swept  it,  can- 
non shaken  it,  floods  grappled  with  it,  and  blood  drenched 
it  from  shore  to  shore.  Wan  processions  of  famine- 
stricken  people  have  dragged  themselves  across  its 
paving-stones,  and  its  gateways  have  reechoed  with 
groans  and  prayers  and  curses.  To-night  we  see  it  as  de- 
fiant as  ever,  battle-scarred  and  unshaken,  with  "head 
bloody  but  unbowed,"  striding  its  river  with  broad  and 
shapely  arches  —  as  real  a  part  of  Heidelberg  as  the 
very  hills  above  it. 
One  looks  down  from  the  castle  on  the  twinkling 


258     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

lights  of  the  cramped  old  town,  and  notes  how  it  has 
ambitiously  spread  its  suburbs  even  beyond  the  opposite 
bank  and  that  its  villa-lamps  sprinkle  their  way  in  the 
distance  toward  that  little  hamlet  with  the  great 
mouthful  of  a  name,  —  Handschuhsheim,  —  in  the  hills. 
It  is  there,  could  we  see  it,  that  the  tumbledown  hut 
stands  that  sheltered  Luther  when  he  escaped  from  the 
"Tile-Devils"  of  Worms;  at  a  sight  of  it  one  wonders 
if  he  did  not  exclaim  here  as  he  did  at  the  Diet:  "Here 
I  take  my  stand.  I  can  do  no  otherwise.  God  help  me!" 
In  Heidelberg  itself,  the  shops  of  that  one  long  street, 
Hauptstrasse,  send  up  a  wavering,  crooked  path  of 
softened  light,  but  the  more  elegant  Anlage  is  discreetly 
reserved  with  all  its  hotels  and  imposing  homes.  One 
distinguishes  little  at  this  hour  of  the  peaked  tile  roofs 
and  faded  shutters  of  the  venerable  town  —  the  little 
awninged  shops,  sombre  cafes,  Stuben,  and  restaurants; 
or  the  excited  appearance  of  an  occasional  side  street 
that  starts  with  all  enthusiasm  at  the  river,  loses  heart 
in  a  block  or  two,  and  comes  suddenly  to  a  discouraged 
end  in  a  tangle  of  trees  and  forest  paths.  We  only  know 
that  Emperor  William  I  canters  his  bronze  steed  with 
its  capacious  girth  along  the  middle  of  Ludwigs- 
Platz  right  up  to  the  university  building  where  the 
celebrated  professors  have  their  "readings"  before  their 
frisky  young  "Meine  Herren";  and  that  the  market- 
place is  probably  as  shabby  and  gloomy  as  usual,  and 
the  Kornmarkt  subsided  again  to  its  customary  hst- 


HEIDELBERG  259 

lessness  since  the  last  of  the  evening  crowds  have  taken 
the  mountain  railroads  there  for  cool  trips  to  the  Konigs- 
stuhl  or  the  Molkenkur  or  for  a  trout  dinner  at  the 
distant  Wolfsbrunnen. 

Out  of  this  cramped  nest  of  roofs  the  shadowy  Gothic 
tower  of  St.  Peter's  Church  rises  boldly,  challenging 
beholders  to  forget  —  if  they  can  —  how  Jerome  of 
Prague  once  nailed  his  theses  on  its  doors  and  defended 
them  before  excited  multitudes;  calling,  besides,  on  the 
distant  and  indifferent  to  sometimes  have  a  thought  of 
the  famous  university  scholars  who  lie  under  the  weeping- 
willows  of  its  churchyard.  A  neighboring  bidder  for 
consideration,  the  famous  Heilig-Geistkirche,  thrusts 
a  lofty  spire  skyward  above  the  dark  tree-tops  until  its 
weather  vane  is  almost  on  a  level  with  our  feet.  There  is 
little  need  for  this  ecclesiastic  to  feel  any  apprehension 
on  the  score  of  being  forgotten,  so  renowned  has  it  been 
for  half  a  thousand  years  as  once  the  foremost  cathedral 
of  the  Palatinate,  celebrated  for  richness  of  endowment, 
extent  of  revenues,  the  beauty  of  its  art  treasures,  and 
the  learning  of  its  prebendaries.  As  it  appeals  to  us  to- 
night it  is  as  one  fallen  far  from  its  former  high  estate, 
and  yet  the  very  eagles  that  soar  over  Heidelberg  must 
have  enough  knowledge  of  religious  controversy  to  re- 
call its  past  amusing  dilemmas  of  divided  orthodoxy. 
The  stranger  in  the  castle  ruins  will  smile  as  he  thinks 
of  what  he  has  read  of  the  days  when  both  Protestants 
and  Catholics  worshiped  there  at  one  and  the  same 


260    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

time,  through  the  effective  device  of  a  partition  wall 
thrown  up  to  separate  choir  from  nave.  The  elaborate 
Catholic  ceremonials  of  the  altar  necessitated  the  re- 
servation of  the  choir  for  them,  while  the  Protestants 
got  along  very  nicely  with  a  pulpit  built  in  the  end  of 
the  nave.  What  unusual  entertainment  might  have 
been  contrived  by  neutrals  to  the  controversy  had  a 
brick  or  two  been  removed  from  the  partition  wall  and 
an  ear  applied  alternately  to  either  service!  On  one 
side,  Ave  Marias  and  Pater  N osiers  —  on  the  other, 
hymns  of  the  Lutherans;  here,  the  wailing  Confiteor 
and  the  penitential  breast-beating  of  mea  culpa — there, 
grim  scorn  of  all  ritual  and  ceremony;  in  the  choir, 
the  intoning  of  versicle  and  response,  reiterations  of 
''Dominus  Vobiscum'*  and  "Et  cum  Spiritu  tuo,"  the 
solemn  Tantum  Ergo,  the  passionate  Agnus  Dei,  and 
the  triple  sound  of  the  acolyte's  bell  as  the  Host  is  elev- 
ated above  the  kneeling,  praying  throngs  —  in  the 
nave,  a  rapt  absorption  in  the  new  significance  of  old 
truths,  and  lengthy  discourses  by  stern  and  ascetic 
expounders;  for  one  congregation,  a  glittering  altar, 
sacred  images,  flaming  candles,  and  a  jeweled  monstrance 
—  stiff  pews  and  a  painted  pulpit,  for  the  other;  for 
the  Catholics,  flocks  of  priests  and  choir  boys,  deacons 
and  subdeacons,  sumptuously  vested  in  alb  and  stole 
and  gorgeous  chasuble  —  for  the  Protestants,  one  solemn 
man  in  black.  Neutrals  at  the  dividing  wall  could  have 
rendered  both  congregations  a  service  by  loosening  a 


HEIDELBERG  261 

brick  or  two  and  letting  a  little  incense  and  beauty  pass 
to  the  Dissenters'  side,  and  some  word  of  wisdom  con- 
cerning a  release  from  dogma  get  through  to  the 
Catholics.  Had  America's  new  policy  of  church  unity 
existed  then,  it  would  have  advocated  doing  away  with 
the  wall  altogether  and  finding  some  compromise  for 
approaching  a  common  God  in  a  common  way.  Time, 
the  great  umpire,  has  settled  the  contest  as  a  draw;  for 
the  partition  wall  has  come  out  and  the  rival  camps 
with  it:  the  present  occupants  are  "Old  Catholics"  — 
a  sect  with  which  either  side  has  little  sympathy  and 
less  patience. 

The  evening  lounger  in  the  old  castle  will  doubtless 
have  more  than  one  thought  of  the  famous  seat  of 
learning  that  has,  for  five  and  a  quarter  centuries,  in- 
vested the  name  of  Heidelberg  with  so  much  lustre  and 
glory.  He  will,  of  course,  have  heard  it  called  the  "cradle 
of  Germanic  science,"  and  will  have  been  told  that  of  all 
Germanic  universities  only  those  at  Prague  and  Vienna 
are  older  than  this.  He  can  form  some  conclusion  as  to 
its  rich  contributions  to  human  knowledge  by  merely 
recalling  the  names  of  its  famous  scholars,  —  Reuchlin, 
Melanchthon,  Ursinus,  Voss,  Helmholtz,  Bunsen,  Kuno 
Fischer,  and  the  rest, — and  will  gauge  its  present  stand- 
ing by  the  acknowledged  eminence  of  its  faculties  in 
medicine,  law,  and  philosophy.  One  thinks  of  its  long 
eras  of  philosophic  speculation,  always  deeply  earnest 
if  not  invariably  profitable,  and  applauds  the  force  of 


262    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Longfellow's  simile  in  "Hyperion"  when  he  compared 
them  to  roads  in  our  Western  forests  that  are  broad  and 
pleasant  at  first,  but  eventually  dwindle  to  a  squirrel- 
track  and  run  up  a  tree.  If  the  loiterer  be  a  Presby- 
terian, he  will  want  to  acknowledge  indebtedness  to  old 
Ursinus  for  that  celebrated  "Heidelberg  Catechism"  of 
three  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago  that  supplied  the 
Westminster  Assembly  with  a  model  for  the  "Shorter 
Catechism"  in  use  to-day.  That  the  university  has 
survived  the  destructive  rigors  of  so  many  fierce  wars 
is  perhaps  sufficient  proof  of  its  vitality  and  the  esti- 
mate men  have  set  on  its  usefulness.  Tilly  carried  off 
its  library  and  presented  it  to  the  Pope,  when  he  con- 
quered Heidelberg  in  the  Thirty  Years'  War,  but  al- 
though only  a  small  portion  of  it  has  ever  been  returned 
it  has  to-day  a  half-million  volumes  and  documents, 
among  which  are  original  writings  of  Martin  Luther 
and  manuscripts  of  the  Minnesingers.  The  pleasant 
summer  semester  attracts  students  here,  —  being  al- 
lowed, under  the  "Freiheit"  system,  to  exchange  alma 
matersy  —  and  then  one  may  count  up  perhaps  two 
thousand  scholastic  transients  in  Heidelberg.  To  many 
visitors  the  equipment  will  appear  meagre,  for,  except- 
ing the  main  building  in  Ludwigs-Platz,  the  library 
building,  medical  institution,  and  botanical  gardens, 
there  is  little  in  sight  to  remind  one  of  its  existence.  In 
witness  of  which  there  is  the  popular  joke  about  a  new 
arrival  who  inquired  of  a  passer-by  where  the  uni- 


HEIDELBERG  268 

versity  might  be:  "Don*t  know,'*  was  the  reply:  "I'm 
a  student  myself." 

The  presence  of  the  jovial  student,  however,  is  too 
much  in  evidence  at  this  time  of  the  evening,  through 
distant  shouts  and  songs,  to  leave  any  one  in  doubt 
about  the  university  being  somewhere  hereabouts.  But 
when  are  they  not  in  evidence  .^^  At  any  hour  of  the  day 
and  night  you  come  across  them  in  the  cafes,  on  the 
streets,  loafing  on  the  bridge  or  up  in  the  castle,  or  re- 
turning or  departing  on  their  favorite  recreation  of 
walking-trips  through  the  hills.  Their  smart  peaked 
caps  and  broad  corps  ribbons  are  scenic  features  of  the 
neighborhood.  You  wonder  when  they  study,  and  how 
much  time  they  ever  spend  in  the  private  rooms  they 
call  their  Wohnungen.  In  spite  of  the  appearance  of 
extreme  hauteur  conveyed  by  their  invariable  and  cere- 
monious punctilio  these  ruddy-faced  boys  are  highly 
sociable,  and  take  a  prodigious  delight  in  smoking, 
drinking,  and  singing  together.  A  Kafeeconcert  is  en- 
tirely to  their  liking,  and  even  more  a  jolly  Kegelbahn 
supper  in  some  forest  restaurant  at  the  end  of  a  long 
tramp.  Most  of  all,  which  is  amazing,  they  relish  their 
stupid  Kneipen  where  every  friendly  draft  of  their  weak 
beer  is  preceded  by  a  challenge  to  drink,  and  where  the 
only  redeeming  feature  is  the  fine  singing.  Still,  at 
Commerces,  one  hears  the  time-honored  Fox  Chorus, 
"What  comes  there  from  the  hill."  Even  the  pet  vice 
of  dueling  might  be  mildly  defended  on  the  ground  that 


264    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

German  students  have  no  such  athletic  contests  as  their 
brothers  of  America  and  England  and  that  each  looks  to 
the  sword,  in  consequence,  as  an  arbiter  of  courage  and 
prowess  —  from  the  Fiichse  (who  are  freshmen)  to  the 
Biirschen  (who  are  seniors).  Granted  that  the  occasional 
sabre  duel  is  really  dangerous,  still  injuries  are  trifling 
in  the  ordinary  encounters  Auf  der  Mensur,  fought  with 
the  thin,  basket-hilted  Schlager,  and  preferably  on  the 
Paukhoden  of  the  famous  Hirschgasse  tavern  up  the 
little  valley  across  the  river.  Blood  apart,  it  is  rather 
amusing  than  otherwise  to  watch  the  contestants  in 
their  pads  and  goggles,  the  seconds  straddling  between 
them  with  drawn  words,  and  the  callous  umpire  keeping 
merry  count  of  the  wounds.  Few  topers  and  bullies  here, 
but  vigorous,  wholesome  youth. 

The  outlook  from  the  Grand  Balcony  is  upon  a  sea 
of  foliage  so  vast  as  completely  to  surround  castle,  gar- 
dens, and  terraces  and  convert  them  into  just  such  an 
enchanted  island  as  springs  so  naturally  out  of  the  pages 
of  the  "Arabian  Nights."  Evidences  of  sorcery  and 
magic  multiply  as  we  make  the  rounds  of  our  fortress,  for 
voices  and  music  come  up  out  of  the  tremulous  green 
depths,  and  companion  isles  emerge  in  the  moonlit  dis- 
tance, but  lifted  far  above  us  and  set  on  prodigious  wave- 
shoulders  of  steadily  increasing  height.  The  loftiest  of 
these  rocks  we  know  to  be  famous  Konigsstuhl,  a  name 
they  have  vainly  been  trying  to  change  to  Kaisers- 
stuhl  since  the  visit  of  Emperor  Francis  of  Austria,  a 


HEIDELBERG  ^Q5 

hundred  years  ago,  and  Emperor  Alexander  of  Russia. 
From  this  eyrie  perch  one  looks  abroad  by  day  on  a 
very  considerable  portion  of  the  wide,  wide  world,  and 
the  distance  covered  is  only  limited  by  the  imagination 
of  the  observer.  Then  the  Neckar  valley  is  at  one's 
feet,  and  a  little  farther  off  is  the  Rhine,  and  away 
yonder  are  the  Haardt  Mountains  and  the  sombre  edges 
of  the  Black  Forest.  The  faint  blur  on  the  southwest- 
ern horizon  is  said  to  be  Speyer,  where  the  followers  of 
the  Reformation  were  first  called  "Protestants,"  and 
the  lofty  pinnacle  of  the  cathedral,  rising  above  the 
tombs  of  its  imperial  dead,  quickens  thoughts  of  that 
"mellifluous  doctor"  whose  writings  were  "a  river  of 
Paradise,"  the  crusade  preacher,  St.  Bernard,  to  whom 
the  Madonna  is  credited  with  having  revealed  herself 
in  that  very  church.  Our  mortal  eyes  may  confirm  the 
identity  of  this  much  from  the  Konigsstuhl's  observation 
tower,  but  we  can  only  envy  the  miraculous  vision  of 
those  who  see  the  spire  of  the  Strassburg  Cathedral,  sixty 
miles  away.  Doubtless  they  could  distinguish  the  iden- 
tical tree  of  the  famous  Odenwald  rhyme:  — 

"  There  stands  a  tree  in  the  Odenwald, 
With  many  a  bough  so  green, 
'Neath  which  my  own  true  love  and  I 
A  thousand  joys  have  seen." 

Another  of  the  companion  isles  of  this  moonlit,  tree- 
top  ocean  is  the  popular  Molkenkur,  a  modern  "whey- 
cure,"  that  flourishes  on  the  princely  site  of  the  earliest 


266     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

stronghold  of  this  whole  region.  To  those  who  are 
strolling  its  broad  terrace  and  reflecting,  perhaps,  upon 
the  tragic  history  of  the  place,  seven  centuries  roll 
back  and  Barbarossa's  brother,  the  savage  Conrad  of 
Hohenstaufen,  climbs  the  forest  trail  with  archers  and 
spearmen,  returning  to  his  mountain  retreat  from  a 
robber  raid  along  the  Rhine.  And  perhaps  the  visitor 
fancies  he  even  hears  the  roar  of  that  historic  explosion 
that  rained  the  wreckage  of  old  Conrad's  fortress  on 
town  and  river,  or  sees  the  blinding  lightning  stroke  that 
crumbled  this  dread  stronghold  into  a  stalking-ground 
for  the  shuddering  phantoms  of  winter  fireside  legends. 

Reflections  that  penetrate  still  farther  back  into  the 
gloaming  of  local  tradition  will  precede  Conrad's  fort- 
ress with  the  temple  of  the  enchantress  Jetta ;  and  could 
we  distinguish  in  the  distance  the  rock  where  the  cozy 
inn  of  the  Wolfsbrunnen  perches  and  serves  its  rare  din- 
ners of  mountain  trout,  we  should  see  the  very  spot 
where  the  wolf  slew  Jetta  in  judgment  of  the  Goddess 
Hertha,  who  was  properly  indignant  that  her  priestess 
should  have  fallen  in  love  with  a  mortal. 

The  nearer  waters  of  the  billowy  forest-sea  that  ripples 
around  the  ruined  castle  walls  contain  in  their  dark, 
cool  depths  a  picturesque  tangle  of  woodland  paths  and 
romantic  walks,  thickets  of  fragrant  flowers,  a  shattered 
arch  half  cloaked  with  ivy,  and  many  a  pleasant  way- 
side cafe  opened  to  the  sky  and  gay  with  its  little  German 
band.  For  those  who  emerge  from  the  shadows  and  come 


HEIDELBERG  267 

up  like  Undines  into  the  moonlight  that  streams  in  a 
silver  mist  on  terrace  and  garden,  as  fair  a  picture  re- 
veals itself  as  can  be  seen  in  any  part  of  our  world.  Here 
are  lakes  and  grottoes  and  fountains  and  statues,  all 
flecked  with  the  heavy  shadows  of  lindens  and  beeches. 
Here  are  crumbling  towers  and  vine-mantled  turrets  and 
shattered,  moss-grown  arch  and  cornice.  Even  lovelier 
to-day  are  these  gardens  and  scarcely  less  celebrated 
than  three  hundred  years  ago  when  old  Solomon  de 
Cans,  architect  and  engineer  of  the  Counts  Palatine 
and  first  prophet  of  the  power  of  steam,  "leveled  the 
mountain-tops  and  filled  up  the  valleys"  (as  he  has 
recorded  in  a  Latin  inscription  in  one  of  the  older  grot- 
toes), and  built  these  "plantations"  and  made  them  the 
haunts  of  singing  birds,  and  filled  them  with  orange-trees 
and  rare  exotic  plants,  and  ornamented  them  with 
statues  and  with  fountains  that  made  music  as  they 
played.  The  ruined  castle  is  embraced  and  enfolded 
in  these  beautiful  gardens  as  an  ailing  child  by  its 
mother's  arms.  The  ravages  of  fire  and  war  have  scarred 
and  wrecked  it  beyond  man's  redemption,  but  the  sturdy 
walls  still  oppose  their  twenty-foot  masonry  to  the 
attacks  of  Time  as  stubbornly  as  did  the  great  Wrent 
Tower  when  it  defied  the  powder  blasts  of  the  detested 
Count  Melac  and  his  devastating  Frenchmen. 

As  the  hour  of  ten  draws  near,  we  return  through  the 
vaulted  passage  from  the  Great  Balcony  and  enter  the 
grass-grown  central  courtyard.     Outside  the  fagades 


268    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

were  grim  and  bleak  and  built  to  meet  an  enemy's  blows, 
but  toward  the  courtyard  the  castle  turned  faces  of 
ornament  and  beauty.  One  feels  at  once  the  force  of 
the  saying  that  this  is  not  the  ruin  of  a  castle,  but  of  an 
epoch.  It  slowly  flowered  through  the  five  hundred'years 
that  Heidelberg  was  the  capital  of  the  Palatinate,  and 
all  the  development  of  those  intervening  times  is  ex- 
pressed in  its  varying  architecture.  Pomp  and  cir- 
cumstance are  written  big  across  it,  for  its  masters  and 
builders  were  counts  and  princes,  kings  and  emperors. 
One  feels  the  love  and  pride  they  took  in  these  deserted 
palaces,  now  masterless.  In  the  pale  moonlight  whole 
rows  of  effigies  of  the  illustrious  dead  stand  boldly  forth 
in  niches  of  the  hollow,  staring  walls,  and  medallion 
heads  peer  curiously  out  of  pediment  recesses,  and  his- 
tory and  allegory  find  expression  in  lifelike  statue  and 
carven  bust.  Delicate  arabesques  and  fanciful  conceits 
wreathe  themselves  in  stones  of  portal  and  cornice, 
and  the  armorial  chequers  of  Bavaria  and  the  Lion 
of  the  Palatinate  oppose  the  lordly  Eagle  of  the  Empire. 
Time  has  modulated  the  discordant  keys  of  architecture 
of  divergent  periods  into  a  common  and  mellow  har- 
mony, so  that  the  first  rude  stones  laid  by  old  Rudolph 
seem  a  consistent  part  of  an  assemblage  that  includes 
that  finest  example  of  Renaissance  architecture  in  all 
Germany  —  Otto-Heinrich's  wonderful  ruddy  palace 
set  with  its  yellow  statues.  One  thinks  of  Prague  and 
the  battle  of  the  White  Hill  as  he  sees  the  ill-starred 


HEIDELBERG  269 

Frederick's  massive  contribution,  and  wonders  why 
this  beautiful  realm  could  not  have  enticed  him  from 
playing  that  tragic  role  of  "Winter  King."  Frederick's 
palace  looms  impressively  by  night;  in  its  varied  archi- 
tecture and  majestic  eflSgies  of  the  House  of  Wittelsbach 
one  feels  the  propriety  of  having  here  a  comprehensive 
levy  upon  the  building-knowledge  of  all  previous  time 
as  an  adequate  and  appropriate  expression  of  the  cath- 
olic culture  of  the  lords  of  the  Palatinate. 

And,  indeed,  one  reflects,  there  was  need  for  both 
strength  and  beauty  to  a  fortress  that  was  to  play  so 
momentous  a  role  in  the  fierce  dissensions  of  its  time. 
In  that  dungeon  a  pope  once  lay  a  prisoner;  in  this  cham- 
ber Huss  found  refuge;  in  yonder  chapel  Luther  has 
preached,  and  all  the  foremost  spiritual  lords  of  the 
hour.  This  courtyard  has  echoed  with  shouts  for  the 
Emperor  Sigismund  when  he  tarried  here  en  route  to 
play  that  perfidious  part  at  the  Council  of  Constance, 
and  has  rocked  with  wild  applause  as  "Wicked  Fritz," 
returning  in  triumph  from  the  battlefield  of  Secken- 
heim,  marched  in  his  captive  princes.  These  staring  walls 
have  blazed  with  royal  fetes — in  the  hush  and  desolation 
of  to-night  one  feels  a  deep  sadness  in  contrasting  the 
ominous  silence  that  pervades  them  now  with  the  splen- 
dor and  uproar  that  vitalized  them  when  a  princess 
was  wedded  in  this  crumbling  chapel;  when  Emperor 
Maximilian  came  up  from  his  coronation  at  Frank- 
fort;   when  the  foremost  figure  of  his  era,  Emperor 


270     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Charles  V,  and  his  sallow  little  son  who  was  later 
Phillip  II,  feasted  and  reveled  here  for  days  at  a 
time. 

We  look  up  at  the  Gothic  balconies,  and  it  seems  as 
though  we  could  almost  see  some  early  lord  of  this 
stronghold  peering  down  through  painted  windows  at 
the  athletic  sports  of  his  hardy  sons;  and  a  certain 
unreality  takes  phantom  form  and  substance,  and  the 
sentinel  figures  descend  solemnly  from  their  niches  as  a 
train  of  valorous  knights  and  pages  issues  from  Otto- 
Heinrich's  broad  portal  with  music  and  laughter;  there 
is  the  scrape  and  tread  of  mailed  feet  and  the  shouts  of  a 
gallant  company  as  fair-haired  women  in  shimmering 
silks  and  high-peaked  headdresses  award  prizes  of  the 
tourney  to  kneeling  men  in  glittering  armor;  and  the 
trumpets  sound  and  the  torches  flare  and  the  noble 
retinue  sweeps  into  the  great  banquet  hall,  while  the 
** merry  councilor"  who  brings  up  the  rear  makes  us  a 
profound  and  mocking  bow  as  the  door  is  closed  —  and 
we  are  alone  with  the  statues  in  the  moonlight. 

The  empty,  silent  courtyard  is  spectral  and  sad;  it  is 
an  hour  for  reverie,  for  apprehension.  The  pale  silver  of 
the  moon  whitens  into  phantom-life  two  sides  and  a 
corner;  the  rest  is  a  deep,  hushed  shadow.  A  cushion  of 
ivy  stirs  in  the  faint  night  air;  a  bat  flashes  over  a  shat- 
tered cornice;  a  stone  detaches  itself  exhaustedly  and 
falls  with  a  tinkle  of  sand,  waking  a  protest  of  little 
echoes. 


HEIDELBERG  271 

One  steals  away  silently,  resigning  ward  of  all  this 
senile  decay  to  faithful  Perkeo,  who,  in  wooden  eflfigy, 
still  companions  his  huge  empty  tuns  in  the  darkness  of 
the  cellars  —  the  little,  red-haired,  faithful  jester  who 
alone  remains  constant  to  his  master,  of  all  the  army  of 
attendants  that  thronged  these  palaces  for  half  a  thou- 
sand years. 

We  pass  the  old  stone-canopied  well  whose  columns 
once  were  Charlemagne's,  pass  the  ponderous  clock 
tower  and  the  moat  bridge,  and  enter  the  fragrant 
gardens  as  the  valley  bells  sound  ten  and  the  purple 
mists  are  rising  from  the  Neckar. 

It  is  impossible  to  escape  a  feeling  of  profound  melan- 
choly. Where  now  are  the  powerful  princes  whose 
rusted  swords  may  not  strike  back  were  I  to  raise  a 
hand  of  destruction  against  the  halls  they  reared  and 
loved  and  guarded  with  such  might .^^  "The  fate  of 
every  man,"  said  the  Koran,  "have  We  bound  about 
his  neck." 

It  is  depressing  to  think  that  such  glory,  power,  and 
beauty  as  once  were  here  should  have  flourished  so 
wonderfully  and  come  to  so  little.  Was  all  this  mag- 
nificence created  merely  for  destruction?  Could  no- 
thing less  suffice  grim  Time  to  build  him  an  eyrie  for 
bats  and  swallows?  Was  Von  Matthisson  right  in  the 
judgment  he  expressed  in  the  sad  and  sympathetic 
"Elegie"  he  penned  in  these  ruins,  and  must  we  con- 
clude with  him  that  temporal  glory  is  but  ashes  and 


272    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

that  the  darkness  of  the  grave  adorns  impartially  the 
proud  brow  of  the  world  ruler  and  the  trembling  head 
that  shakes  above  the  pilgrim's  staff? 

"  Hoheit,  Ehre,  Macht  und  Ruhm  sind  eitel ! 
Eines  weltgebieters  stolze  Scheitel 
Und  ein  zitternd  Haupt  am  Pilgerstab 
Deckt  mit  einer  Dunkelheit  das  Grab!  " 


INTERLAKEN 

10    P.M.    TO    11    P.M. 


INTERLAKEN 

10  P.M.    TO   11    P.M. 

The  top  of  the  evening  at  brisk  and  bracing  Interlaken 
is  certainly  ten  o'clock.  Vigorous,  vitalizing  air  breathes 
down  on  the  lush  meadows  from  towering  Alpine  snow- 
fields,  and  languor  and  ennui  fall  away  from  her  dis- 
pirited summer  idlers  and  a  refreshing  life  interest 
reasserts  itself.  It  is  then  one  may  see  the  deep,  flowered 
lawns  that  front  the  great  hotels  of  the  broad  Hohe- 
weg  pleasantly  thronged  with  animated  guests,  modishly 
and  immaculately  groomed;  and  each  little  street  and 
quiet  lane  has  its  quota  of  vivacious  strollers  who  prefer 
the  keen  night  air  and  the  inspiring  mountain-prospect  to 
the  conventional  attractions  of  the  brilliant  Kursaal  or 
the  round  of  mild  social  diversions  that  is  in  progress 
in  the  hotel  apartments.  Then,  too,  there  is  a  certain 
subdued  note  of  expectancy  in  the  air,  for  this  is  the 
little  village's  fete  hour;  and  almost  as  the  valley  clocks 
are  striking  the  hour  the  celebration  is  heralded  with  a 
burst  of  rockets  from  the  open  field  of  the  Hohenmatte, 
in  the  centre  of  the  town,  and  there  is  a  general  rush  of 
chattering  guests  to  see  the  display  and  to  exhibit  pro- 
digious approval.   All  are  aware  of  the  fact  that  this  is 


276     AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

merely  an  expression,  in  terms  of  Swiss  thrift,  of  the 
appreciation  the  seventy-five  hundred  villagers  feel 
for  the  lucrative  presence  of  thousands  of  guests,  and 
yet  it  admirably  serves  as  a  mid-break  in  the  evening's 
diversions.  There  is  little  enough  to  the  celebration,  to 
be  sure,  excepting  the  exaggerated  importance  such  an 
event  always  assumes  to  isolated  summer  people,  but 
you  would  think  it  was  a  pyrotechnic  marvel,  to  judge 
by  the  enthusiasm. 

To  see  Interlaken  then  is  to  behold  her  at  her  gayest. 
Bridge-parties  forsake  their  cards,  late  diners  their 
ices,  and  billiardists  their  cues.  Each  little  balcony  on 
the  hotel  fronts  is  promptly  crowded,  orchestras  strike 
up  lively  Strauss  waltzes,  troops  of  delighted  guests 
hurry  across  the  Hoheweg  and  pour  into  the  meadow, 
until  one  might  fairly  conclude  there  was  a  carnival  on, 
from  the  overflow  of  laughter  and  merrymaking.  It  is 
always  a  great  moment  at  the  Kursaal.  There  the  ex- 
citement seekers  have  been  wandering  from  parlors  to 
lounging-rooms  and  ending  up  in  the  cheery  gaming- 
hall,  where  a  toy  train  on  a  long  green  table  darts  around 
a  little  track,  laden  with  the  francs  and  merry  hopes  of 
modest  challengers  of  fortune,  and  comes  to  an  exciting 
and  leisurely  stop  before  some  station  with  the  name  of 
a  European  capital.  Just  then, like  as  not, as  the  croupier 
begins  raking  in  the  scattered  piles  of  silver  and  the 
losers  are  being  gleefully  accosted  by  their  friends, 
somebody  suddenly  shouts  "Fireworks!"  and  forthwith 


INTERLAKEN  277 

all  run  hurrahing  into  the  gardens  and  cry  out  like 
summer  children  in  vast  delight  over  the  rockets  that  go 
hurtling  skyward  from  the  Hohenmatte.  It  is  all  quite 
of  the  nature  of  a  very  elegant  international  fete  to 
which  the  Old  World  and  the  New  have  accredited 
their  most  recherche  representatives. 

There  is  seldom  a  lack  of  keen  activity  at  Interlaken, 
but  at  this  hour  it  is  most  abounding;  nor  will  the  new 
arrival  fail  to  note  the  contrast  between  the  sharp  alert- 
ness of  this  company  and  the  lethargic  listlessness  that 
depresses,  for  instance,  the  bored  idlers  who  bask  in  the 
dusty  olive  gardens  of  the  Riviera.  In  the  intermittent 
glow  of  the  fireworks,  cottages  and  distant  hotels  spring 
out  of  the  surrounding  darkness.  The  top  of  a  hillside 
sanatorium  appears  of  a  sudden  white  against  the  dark 
pines,  the  packsaddle  roof  of  the  church  tower  discovers 
itself,  a  turret  shows  with  the  red  field  and  white  Greek 
cross  of  the  Swiss  flag  lazily  unfolding  above  it,  and  one 
looks  anxiously  for  just  one  glimpse  of  the  old  cloister's 
round  towers  and  cone-shaped  roofs  that  reminded 
Longfellow  of  "tall  tapers  with  extinguishers."  Music 
drifts  down  from  remote  cafes  and  pavilions  nestling 
in  wooded  nooks.  The  air  is  heady  and  buoyant  with  the 
scent  of  pine  and  fir.  Life  seems  at  high  tide;  and  then 
just  as  suddenly  it  is  all  over,  and  the  gay  company 
resumes  its  interrupted  activities  with  infinite  laughter 
and  handclapping. 

There  is  a  positive  spell  to  all  this  Alpine  comedy. 


278     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

No  new  arrival  will  feel  inclined  to  return  at  once  to 
hotel  conventionalities,  with  a  soft  purple  mist  shroud- 
ing the  Lauterbrunnen  Valley,  and  the  distant  Jung- 
frau  lying  pallid  and  wan  in  the  moonlight.  He  will 
gaze  about  him  in  wonder  at  the  snow-crowned  peaks 
that  hem  in  the  little  Bodeli  plain  where  Interlaken 
snuggles,  and  will  feel  how  wonderful  it  is  that  the 
boisterous  Liitschine  and  its  fellow  torrents  could  ever 
have  filled  in  this  alluvial  barrier  between  the  deep 
lakes  that  fought  them  inch  by  inch.  He  will  think  of 
the  enchanted  regions  of  the  Bernese  Oberland  that  lie 
just  before  him,  and  of  the  contrasting  beauty  of  the 
inland  seas  that  stretch  away  on  either  hand:  Lake 
Brienz,  mysterious  and  austere,  scowling  at  its  precip- 
itous mountain  shores,  roaring  welcomes  to  its  thunder- 
ing waterfalls,  and  begrudging  standing-room  for  the 
tiniest  of  hamlets;  Lake  Thun,  "the  Riviera  of  Switz- 
erland," with  lovely  vistas  of  green  meadows,  cha- 
teaux-dotted hillsides  and  distant  snowy  summits,  all 
breathing  such  mildness  and  serenity  as  befitted  the 
former  abode  of  the  holy  hermit  of  St.  Beatenberg. 
And  doubtless  he  will  seek  out  some  tree-embowered 
path  that  winds  along  the  Aare,  and  there  indulge  in 
contemplative  thought  of  this  glittering  blue  link  be- 
tween the  lakes.  Nor  could  he  do  better,  for  this  arrog- 
ant stream  is  an  illustrious  instance  of  a  reformed  rake. 
Of  evil  repute  for  riotous  cascade  and  brawling  tor- 
rent all  the  way  up  to  its  home  by  the  Grimsel  Pass,  it 


INTERLAKEN  279 

responds  to  the  touch  of  civilization  at  Interlaken  and 
meekly  accepts  the  bondage  of  steam  for  the  remainder 
of  its  career.  What  a  gratifying  example  of  reform  it 
presents  as  it  proceeds  demurely  along  from  this  scene 
of  moral  crisis,  laving  thankful  little  towns,  reporting 
conscientiously  to  the  proper  authorities  at  Bern,  and, 
after  an  exhibition  review-sweep  around  the  capital, 
flowing  sweetly  on  to  Waldshut  and  modestly  laying 
down  its  burden  on  the  broad  bosom  of  the  Rhine.  The 
stranger  will  perceive  that  virtue  has  its  rewards,  with 
rivers  as  with  humans,  when  he  takes  note  of  the  ex- 
travagant petting  and  eulogy  that  has  followed  the  re- 
pentance of  the  Aare  at  Interlaken,  its  adornment  with 
promenades,  gardens,  and  artistic  bridges,  and  the  choice 
of  much  excellent  society,  particularly  at  night,  on  the 
part  of  ruminating  savants  and  romantic  lovers  of  all 
ages. 

Strolling  along  the  river  paths  carpeted  with  sweet- 
scented  pine  needles,  the  delighted  new  arrival  has  only 
to  lift  his  eyes  to  discover  how  picturesquely  the  little 
city  lies  in  its  bed  of  lush  and  fertile  meadows.  It  will 
seem  to  him  like  a  great  stage  set  for  a  mammoth  spec- 
tacle. For  background  there  is  the  black  and  flinty 
Harder,  set  with  the  grim  rock  face  of  the  scowling 
Hardermannli,  rugged  in  boulders  and  sheer  cliffs  and 
hiding  its  base  in  treacherous,  grassy  slopes;  the  Aare 
skirts  it  fearfully,  and  the  pretty  little  cottages  of  Unter- 
seen  shrink  close  to  Lake  Thun  on  its  farther  side. 


280     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Prostrate  Interlaken  lies  supine  before  it,  gazing  appeal- 
ingly  through  its  innumerable  windows  across  the  open 
Hohenmatte,  over  the  beeches  and  firs  of  the  protruding 
shoulder  of  the  Rugen,  and  on  up  the  dodging,  narrow 
Liitschine  Valley  to  the  remote  and  sympathetic  Jung- 
frau.  The  scene  is  ready  for  the  curtain  when  you  have 
dotted  the  mountain  slopes  with  chalets. 

Or  perhaps,  if  the  stranger  is  fanciful,  he  will  conceive 
the  Alpine  ravens  thinking  it  some  enormous  eagle 
swooping  toward  the  Lauterbrunnen  Valley,  with  clus- 
tered houses  for  an  attenuated  body  and  two  lakes  for 
powerful  blue  wings  beating  out  and  back.  Or,  again,  he 
may  be  reminded  by  this  group  of  huge  hotels  of  some 
fleet  of  old-time  ships-of-the-line  that  started  down  the 
valley  to  bombard  the  Jungfrau.  Early  in  the  action 
formation  was  lost  and  the  great  hulks  drifted  about  in 
hopeless  confusion.  Several,  apparently,  went  promptly 
aground  on  the  banks  of  the  Aare  right  under  the  pre- 
cipices of  the  Harder;  all  of  the  big  ones  foundered  in  a 
row  along  the  Hoheweg;  a  number  became  desperately 
entangled  in  the  square  before  the  Spielmatten  Island; 
some  trailed  southward  in  what  we  call  Jungfraustrasse, 
and  others  in  Alpenstrasse ;  here  and  there  one  lies  at 
anchor  along  the  farther  meadows,  waiting  for  signals 
from  the  flagship  on  the  Hoheweg;  and  at  least  one,  in 
the  guise  of  an  ugly  white  church,  was  caught  in  some 
violent  cross-current  and  tossed  up  high  and  dry  on  the 
brow  of  the  fir-smothered  Gsteig. 


INTERLAKEN  281 

The  evening  guest  who  does  not  fancy  reveries  along  a 
mountain  stream,  nor  yet  the  quiet  pacing  of  the  neat 
lanes  that  are  so  characteristic  of  this  immaculate  repub- 
lic of  "spotless  towns,"  whose  very  flag  appropriately 
suggests  the  Red  Cross  Society's  familiar  emblem  of 
sanitation,  will  find  it  amusing  to  loiter  among  the  little 
shops  of  the  village  and  see  the  curious  wooden  trifles  of 
Brienz,  the  delicately  tinted  majolica  ware  of  Thun,  ex- 
quisite ivory  carvings,  and  rare  bijouterie  of  filigree  silver 
wrought  with  infinite  patience  and  skill.  Tiring  of  these, 
he  may  ramble  under  the  fine  old  walnut-trees  of  the 
Hoheweg  and  congratulate  himself  that  he  is  not  under 
the  horse-chestnuts  of  Lucerne  to  look  out  on  inferior 
mountain  prospects  and  breathe  a  less  intoxicating  air. 

The  most  approved  form  of  evening  entertainment  is 
a  round  of  calls  among  friends  scattered  over  the  broad 
lawns  of  the  hotels,  when  one  may  divert  himself  with 
summer  orchestras  or  itinerant  bands  of  Italian  singers 
in  crimson  sashes,  or  revel  in  a  rare  profusion  of  beauti- 
ful flowers;  and,  from  time  to  time,  look  gladly  up  at  a 
crisp  sky  splendid  with  great  luminous  stars  whose  trem- 
ulous ardor,  in  Walter  Pater's  famous  phrase,  "burns  like 
a  gem."  It  is  a  capital  place  to  gather  impressions  of 
what  life  at  Interlaken  means  and  what  goes  forward 
each  day  among  its  votaries.  It  is  perfectly  plain  that 
this  must  be  a  great  place;  everybody  is  so  bubblingly 
cheerful  and  so  devoutly  grateful  for  being  just  here  and 
no  possible  spot  else.  You  will  hear  them  insisting  that 


282     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Interlaken,  being  halfway  between,  is  an  admirable  com- 
bination of  the  complacent  "prettiness"  of  Geneva  and 
the  austere  solemnity  of  the  vaunted  Engadine  Valley. 
Or  there  will  be  fragments  of  conversation  reaching  you 
about  tennis  matches  on  the  Hohenmatte,  lake  bathing 
in  Brienz,  motor-bus  runs  from  the  golf  links  of  Bonigen, 
where  the  residents  plant  a  fruit  tree  whenever  a  baby 
is  born,  or  of  desperate  scrambles  up  the  zigzag  trails  of 
the  Harder  beloved  of  Weber,  Mendelssohn,  and  Wag- 
ner, with  rapturous  accounts  of  the  inspiring  view  from 
the  Kulm.  Some,  you  will  gather,  have  passed  the  day 
uneventfully  among  the  park  walks  of  the  Rugen,  gazing 
down  on  Lake  Brienz  from  the  Trinkhalle  Cafe,  or  on 
Lake  Thun  from  the  Scheffel  Pavilion,  or  on  both  from 
farther  up  on  the  belvedere  of  the  Heimwehfluh.  Others 
again,  it  seems,  have  actually  crossed  the  mild  Wagner 
Ravine  and  ascended  the  lofty  Abendberg  of  the  Grosser 
Rugen;  and  for  this  pitiful  adventure  you  hear  them  pose 
as  veteran  mountain  conquerors  who  will  carry  their 
alpenstocks  home  with  them  and  forever  after  speak 
familiarly  of  edelweiss  and  the  flora  of  the  summits. 
There  even  appear  to  have  been  romantic  souls,  familiar 
with  Madame  de  Stael's  accounts  of  St.  Berchtold  festi- 
vals, who  have  spent  the  hours  in  dreams  of  Byron's 
"Manfred"  down  by  the  old  round  tower  of  the  dilapi- 
dated wreckage  of  Unspunnen  Castle — in  truth,  the  most 
abject  of  ruins,  and  quite  as  forlorn  as  Mariana's  Moated 
Grange.  Not  a  few  will  have  the  courage  to  confess  that 


INTERLAKEN,    OX    THE    HOTEL    LAWN 


INTERLAKEN  283 

they  have  done  nothing  more  heroic  than  stroll  by  the 
shaded  Goldei  promenades  along  the  Aare  until  they 
came  to  Unterseen,  where  they  deliberately  sat  down 
and  gazed  to  satiety  at  the  curious  toy  houses  with  the 
long  carved  balconies  and  amazing  roofs  that  project 
beyond  all  belief. 

Thus,  by  merely  catching  flying  ends  of  talk,  a 
stranger  may  imbibe  the  proper  amount  of  enthusiasm 
and  gather  some  rambling  notion  of  the  fine  things 
Interlaken  has  in  store  for  him. 

But  the  real  evening-heroes  must  be  looked  for  at  the 

Kursaal.   That  is  where  you  hear  the  great  champion 

talkers  of  the  world !  What  was  the  amiable  Tartarin  to 

such  as  these?    Or  Baron  Munchausen?    Or  Sir  John 

Mandeville?  On  such  deaf  ears  fell  the  warning  ignored 

of  "Excelsior": — 

"Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche!" 

Behold  them  at  their  ease  in  wicker  chairs  in  the  loung- 
ing-room,  stretching  the  weary  limbs  that  have  borne 
them  in  safety  through  a  hundred  Alpine  perils.  For  all 
who  will  listen,  what  tales  may  be  heard  of  desperate 
daring  amid  the  imminent  deadly  breach  of  crevasse 
and  avalanche !  Under  the  vivid  hand  of  the  actual  par- 
ticipant one  fairly  sees  the  progress  of  the  proud  moun- 
tain-queller  —  follows  with  bated  breath  the  slow  and 
tedious  early  stages,  the  hazardous  upward  advance, 
the  surmounting  of  final  barriers  by  dint  of  ice-axe  and 


284    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

life-rope,  and  so  enters  into  the  joy  of  the  ultimate 
conquest  of  the  wild,  bleak,  wind-swept  summit.  Who 
would  have  the  hardihood  in  such  a  presence  to  speak 
a  word  of  such  contemptible  contrivances  as  mountain 
tramways  and  funicular  railroads !  It  is  enough  that  the 
uninitiated  should  realize  in  the  shuddering  depths  of  his 
soul  that  there  still  remains  terra  incognita  to  the  listless, 
the  fat,  and  the  asthmatic.  Later  on,  of  course,  we  come 
to  view  these  hardy  characters  in  a  somewhat  truer  per- 
spective; but  that  will  be  after  we  have  talked  with  their 
guides,  or  ourselves  turned  heroes  and  blujffed  at  like 
hazards. 

All  the  same,  there  is  no  denying  the  satisfaction  a 
newcomer  has,  in  the  beginning,  in  attending  the  impres- 
sive conversation  of  these  desperate  and  intrepid  Kur- 
saal  adventurers.  He  certainly  feels  that  he  has  at  last 
reached  a  region  of  hardy  men  and  genuine  mountain 
hand-to-hand  struggles.  He  hears,  with  popping  eyes,  of 
the  lofty  little  hamlet  of  Murren,  away  up  in  cloudland, 
whose  tiny  cottages  stagger  under  broad,  stone-freighted 
roofs  and  where  vast,  sublime  Titans  scowl  awfully 
from  inaccessible  heights.  They  tell  him  it  is  a  region  of 
eternal  dazzling  whiteness,  with  patches  of  black  here 
and  there  that  are  really  forests  half  buried  in  snow,  and 
where  the  air  is  stifling  with  the  constant  odor  of  ice  and 
frost.  A  truly  shuddering  place,  they  say,  where  men 
cannot  hear  themselves  talk  for  the  incessant  thunder- 
ing of  plunging  avalanches,  and  where  the  herdsman 


INTERLAKEN  285 

seldom  ventures  and  the  sunrise  is  never  heralded  by  the 
alphorn  of  the  hardy  Senn.  Later  on,  to  be  sure,  we 
journey  luxuriously  to  this  same  Miirren  in  a  comfort- 
able mountain  railway  and  with  considerably  less  of 
peril  than  attends  going  to  office  by  elevator  in  a  sky- 
scraper at  home;  and  we  find  it  a  green  and  peaceful 
retreat,  well  supplied  with  hotels  and  gratefully  affected 
by  delicate  old  ladies  with  weak  lungs.  Just  the  same, 
we  would  not  have  missed  the  thrills  of  that  first  Kur- 
saal  account.  Alas  for  all  disillusionment,  anyway! 
Most  of  the  beautiful  white,  velvety  edelweiss  these 
rocking-chair  climbers  produce  from  their  pockets  in 
proof  of  their  presence  in  frightful  and  remote  ravines 
has  really  been  bought  for  a  franc  on  the  Hoheweg,  and 
the  chamois  they  stalked  in  summit  passes  generally 
dwindle  down  to  the  little  ivory  ones  you  find  in  the 
shops  of  Jungfraustrasse. 

The  truth  of  the  Kursaal,  when  you  get  it,  is  stranger 
than  its  fiction ;  as  when  the  talk  turns  to  the  progress  of 
the  construction  work  on  the  Jungfrau  Railway,  that 
imperishable  monument  to  the  genius  and  patience  of 
the  late  Adolf  Guyer-Zeller,  of  Zurich.  It  is  then  you 
hear  of  the  loftiest  tunnels  in  the  world,  eight  and  ten 
miles  long,  through  icy  mountain  shoulders  ten  thousand 
feet  above  the  sea;  of  gradients  of  one  in  four;  of  squirrel 
locomotives  so  ingeniously  contrived  that  if  the  electric 
power  were  suddenly  to  fail  they  could  generate  enough 
by  their  own  weight  to  clap  on  brakes  and  come  down  in 


286     AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

safety;  of  searchlights  in  the  stations  on  the  peaks  so 
strong  that  a  man  can  read  by  them  away  over  at  Thun; 
of  powerful  telescopes,  free  to  patrons,  through  which 
you  may  observe  the  occupations  of  the  crowds  on  the 
Rigi  and  Mount  Pilatus  at  remote  Lucerne;  of  roomy 
and  luxurious  stations  blasted  out  of  the  depths  of  the 
mountains,  whose  floors  are  parquetry  and  whose  light 
and  heat  are  electricity,  with  twenty-foot  windows 
piercing  the  rock  and  appearing,  even  from  across  the 
neighboring  abyss,  like  tiny  pin-pricks  in  the  perpendic- 
ular cliff;  of  the  highest  post-oflSce  on  earth,  from  whose 
windows  you  look  out  on  twenty  glaciers.  Of  the  truth 
of  all  this  you  are  to  learn  later  on  when  you  make  the 
unforgettable  run  to  Eismeer  —  "sea  of  ice" — the 
farthest  point  so  far  attained  in  the  steady  progress  of 
this  marvelous  railway  toward  the  summit  of  the  Jung- 
frau,  now  only  a  mile  or  two  beyond,  and  which  had 
been  the  despair  of  mountain  climbers  of  all  time  until 
the  Meyer  brothers  conquered  it,  one  hundred  years 
ago. 

One  finds  the  evening  gossipers  of  the  Kursaal  scarcely 
less  fascinating  when  they  focus  their  talents  on  nearer 
regions;  for  "distant  meadows"  are  not  always  "the 
greenest."  Agreeable  things  are  to  be  heard  of  Schynige 
Platte,  whither,  it  appears,  you  journey  by  cogwheel 
railway  up  steep  gradients  in  an  observation  car  behind 
a  violently  puffing  locomotive,  past  pretty  toy  stations, 
around  dizzy  corners,  through  the  startling  blackness  of 


INTERLAKEN  287 

unexpected  tunnels,  and  so  on  out  and  up  to  the  giddy 
plateau  and  an  overpowering  prospect  of  snowfields, 
misty  valleys,  gorges,  and  cataracts  upon  which  you 
gaze  in  spellbound  astonishment  from  the  comfortable 
terrace  of  the  "Alpenrose."  From  no  other  viewpoint, 
they  tell  you,  does  the  stupendous  Monch  (Monk)  seem 
to  stand  out  so  squarely  in  the  middle  distance  in  his 
cowl  of  snow,  playing  his  traditional  role  of  discouraging 
duenna  between  the  coveted  Jungfrau  and  the  eager 
Eiger  whom  he  repels  with  an  eternal  arm  of  glittering, 
blue  ridge-ice. 

When  the  conversation  takes  up  Grindelwald,  it  be- 
comes so  attractive  that  you  make  a  mental  note  to  go 
there  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  It  seems  you  are  to 
take  one  of  those  droll  little  coaches  of  the  Bernese  Ober- 
land  Road  marked  "B.O.B.,"  and  proceed  delightedly 
up  the  green  valley  of  the  Lutschine.  Very  soon  will 
loom  before  you  the  bleak  shoulders  of  the  Wetterhorn, 
seared  and  precipitous,  capped  and  pocketed  with  snow; 
the  overwhelming  pyramid  of  the  Eiger,  fearful  with 
gorge  and  chasm;  the  regal  Jungfrau,  immaculate  and 
stupendous;  and,  most  uncommon  spectacle  of  all,  the 
awe-inspiring  glacier  —  a  frozen  tumble  of  scarred  boul- 
ders and  grimy  icebergs,  pierced  by  glittering  ice  grot- 
toes and  ridged  with  terraced  ways  from  which  you  stare 
down  into  yawning  black  gulfs  that  are  fringed  with 
giant  icicles  pendent  from  the  frozen  ledges.  What  was 
it  Coleridge  said  of  glaciers  .^^ 


288    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

"  Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice, 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plmige! 
Motionless  torrents!  silent  cataracts!" 

But  many  there  will  be  at  the  Kursaal  to  tell  you  such 
tales  of  the  enchanted  Lauterbrunnen  Valley  as  to  in- 
cline you  to  reconsider  any  resolution  about  going  first 
to  Grindelwald.  There,  it  is  clear,  we  are  to  find  quality 
rather  than  quantity:  a  narrow  ravine  through  the 
mountains,  carpeted  with  the  greenest  of  turf  and  hung 
with  glorious  waterfalls  that  come  tumbling  down  from 
lofty  limestone  precipices.  We  are  to  drive  beside  a 
turbulent  stream  set  with  occasional  chalets  whose  pro- 
jecting roofs  will  suggest  broad-brimmed  hats  jammed 
down  over  their  eyes,  and  here  and  there  we  shall  come 
across  a  white  stone  church.  Shortly  there  will  be 
raging,  leaping  torrents  all  about  us,  vaulting  down 
great  cliffs  of  strange  and  startling  appearance,  and  a 
vista  of  wonderland  will  open  before  us  with  the  stately 
Steinberg  enthroned  in  the  midst.  Next,  climax  on 
climax,  the  incomparable  Staubbach !  Before  this  queen 
of  cataracts  every  other  "hanging  thread"  is  instantly 
and  hopelessly  dwarfed,  as  it  launches  its  "wreaths  of 
dangling  water-smoke  "  from  a  thousand  feet  above.  We 
will  think  this  "dust  brook"  a  mere  feathery  spray  flut- 
tered in  a  capricious  breeze,  so  astonishing  is  the  evid- 
ence of  the  resistance  of  the  air  and  the  friction  of  the 
rocks  back  of  it;  but  once  we  have  gone  behind  it  and 
observed  the  "perpetual  iris"  made  by  the  sun  in  shin- 


INTERLAKEN  289 

ing  through,  it  will  appear  a  wonder  beyond  classifica- 
tion. Byron  fancied  it  "the  tail  of  the  White  Horse"; 
Wordsworth  called  it  "the  sky-born  waterfall";  and 
Goethe's  dripping  song  of  it  runs:  — 

"In  clouds  of  spray. 
Like  silver  dust, 
It  veils  the  rock 
In  rainbow  hues; 
And  dancing  down 
With  music  soft. 
Is  lost  in  air." 

Lesser  lights  are  to  be  found  among  the  Kursaal  he- 
roes who  will  confess  to  nothing  more  unusual  in  the  way 
of  activity  than  salmon-fishing  in  the  neighboring  lakes 
or  bagging  red  partridge  and  hazel  hens  in  the  upper 
meadows.  But  these,  by  contrast,  appear  sportsmen 
of  so  mean  an  order  that  the  stranger  who  has  fed  fat 
on  the  succulent  yarns  of  the  Munchausens  receives 
with  impatience  information  for  which,  in  fact,  he  should 
be  grateful.  For  instance :  that  in  the  winter  the  ther- 
mometers of  the  higher  settlements  get  down  to  fifty- 
four  below  freezing  and  yet  the  dry  air  keeps  people 
warmer  than  in  the  valleys,  and  that  the  snow  falls  in 
such  incredible  quantities  that  artificial  lights  have  to 
be  used  in  the  lower  stories  of  the  houses  all  day  and 
trenches  cut  for  exit;  that  up  there  when  the  terrific 
Fohn  blows  from  the  south  no  man  can  make  headway 
against  it,  but  must  lie  flat  on  his  face  and  hang  on  and 
then  jump  up  and  dart  forward  a  few  yards  between 


290    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

gusts;  that  those  people  can  foretell  the  weather  by 
changes  in  the  color  of  the  ice  —  blue  meaning  fine, 
green  for  snow,  and  white  for  fog;  that  the  Alpine  crows 
of  the  summits  are  dark  blue,  with  yellow  beaks  and  red 
feet,  and  the  "wall-creepers"  are  gray  as  mice,  with 
white  and  red  spots  on  their  wings  and  with  beaks 
shaped  like  awls.  At  some  such  point  as  this  the  stranger 
will  rise  with  a  yawn  and  go  away  in  disgust,  annoyed 
at  being  taken  for  a  credulous  fool.  The  seed,  however, 
has  been  sown  and  it  flourishes  like  the  fabled  mustard. 
The  new  arrival  becomes  a  confirmed  zealot  and  burns 
with  all  the  ardor  of  a  convert;  albeit  his  brain  is  a  con- 
fused and  bewildered  muddle  of  harsh-sounding  moun- 
tain names,  all,  apparently,  ending  in  horn. 

When  he  comes  out  on  the  lawns  he  finds  the  guests 
still  thronging  the  verandas,  although  it  is  nearly  eleven 
and  prodigies  of  mountaineering  are  slated  for  the  mor- 
row, and  he  hears  the  bands  still  engaged  with  Puccini 
and  the  latest  Vienna  successes.  In  the  fragrant,  dewy 
gardens  fountains  are  playing,  and  lovers  are  discreetly 
screening  behind  clumps  of  flowering  shrubs.  Return- 
ing excursionists  are  excitedly  vocal  over  the  illumina- 
tion of  the  Giessbach,  whence  they  have  just  arrived  in 
one  of  those  pompous  lake  steamers  whose  sure  and  cau- 
tious pace  reminded  the  satirical  Victor  Tissot  of  "the 
dignified  motion  of  a  canalboat."  To  hear  these  enthusi- 
asts, this  appears  to  have  been  one  more  of  those  excep- 
tionable occasions  that  the  absent  are  always  missing. 


INTERLAKEN  291 

and  that  the  renowned  waterfall  never  before  roared 
and  tumbled  and  foamed  half  so  extravagantly  in  mak- 
ing its  long,  mad  plunge  through  the  dusky,  dark-green 
firs.  Out  on  the  Hoheweg  a  walking-party  in  knicker- 
bockers and  hobnailed  shoes,  and  with  edelweiss  stuck 
in  green  felt  hats,  are  flourishing  their  alpenstocks  and 
driving  bargains  with  sunburned  guides  whose  names, 
undoubtedly,  are  either  Melchior  or  Mathias;  these 
latter,  we  are  to  learn,  are  of  a  fearless  but  canny  and 
laconic  nature,  "economical  as  gypsies  and  punctual  as 
executioners." 

How  keenly  people  take  their  pleasures  in  the  spark- 
ling evenings  of  Interlaken.  How  sharp  and  distinct  are 
sounds  and  sights,  and  how  varied  the  night  life.  Each 
little  street  is  as  gayly  illuminated  as  though  for  some 
special  celebration,  and  so  hearty  with  good  cheer  that 
one  looks  for  some  band  of  Bernese  wrestlers,  returning 
in  triumph  from  a  festival,  to  round  the  next  corner  and 
strike  up  that  clarion  anthem  "Stehe  fest,  O  Vaterland." 
It  would  seem  as  though  the  "Fete  du  Mi-Ete"  must 
actually  be  in  full  swing  right  here,  instead  of  afar  in  the 
upland  pastures.  Even  at  this  hour  a  joyful  multitude 
still  streams  along  under  the  Hoheweg's  century-old 
walnuts,  hatless,  radiant,  and  babbling  in  every  Europ- 
ean tongue.  They  flock  about  the  confectioners'  stands 
and  in  and  out  of  the  curiosity-chalets,  greeting  acquaint- 
ances with  eager  pleasure  and  proposing  jolly  plans  for 
to-morrow.  Each  little  shop  seems  seUing  to  capacity. 


292    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Occasionally  a  peasant  girl  passes,  brusque  and  stolid, 
in  short  skirt  and  bright  bodice,  with  V-shaped  rows 
of  edelweiss  buttons.  Out  on  the  green  Hohenmatte 
lively  groups  loiter  about  aimlessly,  and  somewhere  in 
the  vague  distance  some  one  is  singing  the  ever-popular 
"Trittst  im  Morgenrot  daher."  The  thickly -wooded 
Rugen  seems  a  colossal  black  mastiff  asleep  with  his  head 
between  his  paws.  Away  up  the  misty  valley,  whose 
vital  air  is  so  sweet  with  refreshing  odors  and  so  soothing 
with  soft  music,  the  regal  Jungfrau  looms  in  dim  and 
spectral  outline,  as  ghostly  and  deceptive  as  any  faint 
feathering  of  cumulus  clouds. 

A  distant  Jodel  or  the  lilt  of  a  plaintive  Ranz  des 
Vaches  excites  cordial  thoughts  of  this  fair  Helvetia  and 
her  strong  and  devoted  people.  "I  wonder,"  a  friend 
once  said  to  me  at  Interlaken,  "if  these  men  and  women 
really  appreciate  how  lovely  their  country  is."  Perhaps 
the  best  answer  is  to  be  found  in  the  desperate  resolu- 
tion with  which  they  have  held  it  for  six  hundred  years. 
Hard  necessity  has  taught  these  brawny  mountaineers, 
whom  Mr.  Ruskin  ungenerously  called  "ungenerous 
and  unchivalrous,"  that  to  be  "painfully  economical"  is 
wiser  than  to  chance  privation.  One  thinks  with  wonder 
of  the  hardships  endured  by  the  herdsman  away  up  in 
the  mountain  pastures,  eating  his  sweet-bread  and  drain- 
ing his  milk-filled  wooden  bowl  in  a  rude  pine  hut,  with 
goats  and  kine  for  comrades,  and,  for  his  sole  diversion, 
an  occasional  glimpse  of  a  leaping  chamois,  a  sly  moun- 


INTERLAKEN  293 

tain  fox,  a  white  hare,  or  the  whistling,  rat-like,  shadowy 
marmot.  With  his  long  alphorn  he  calls  the  cattle  home 
or  sounds  the  vesper  hour,  until  the  loud  echoes  shout 
back  from  snowfield  and  ice  gorge  and  the  great  ravens 
swerve  in  their  swimming  flight.  In  summer,  fluttering 
clouds  of  butterflies  will  drift  above  the  pansies  and 
Alpine  roses  and  gentians  on  his  meadow;  but  in  winter 
the  pallid,  velvety  edelweiss  is  all  the  huntsman  will 
find  on  those  frozen  ledges.  What  a  wild  and  tragic 
region  it  must  be  when  the  last  Senn  has  driven  his  herd 
down  into  the  valleys  and  old  Winter  is  in  undisturbed 
possession  of  his  "dear  domestic  cave."  The  herdsman 
may  rejoice  that  he  is  not  there  then;  for  it  becomes 
a  world  of  black  and  white,  of  illimitable  snow  and 
blotches  of  black  forests,  of  death  and  waste  and  the 
frightful  stillness  of  stupendous  heights.  Then  it  is  a 
deserted  realm  of  ice  and  snow  set  with  pitfalls  of  treach- 
erous crevasses  and  dreadful  perils  from  hidden  gulfs 
and  pitiless  avalanches;  a  shuddering  space  of  cloud 
banks  and  waving  vapor-scarfs;  a  haunted  borderland 
of  sinister  shapes  in  the  writhing  mists  like  wraiths  of 
Alpine  legends. 

Even  so,  hundreds  of  failing  foreigners  go  a  long  way 
up  in  those  forbidding  regions  in  winter  for  an  "enthusi- 
asm of  the  blood  "  and  a  "  fairy  titillation  of  the  nerves.'* 
And  when  the  days  are  bright  and  of  their  peculiar 
crystal  clearness,  and  the  skies  are  a  cloudless  blue 
and  the  sunshine  a  deluge,  these  invalids  revel  in  skating 


294    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

and  curling  and  the  hockey  they  call  "bandy";  and 
will  even  try  appalling  flights  by  ski  and  toboggan 
through  the  "nipping  and  eager  air,"  over  smooth 
trails  of  glistening  snow,  rivaling  the  records  of  the 
"blue-ribbon"  Schatzalp  course  at  Davos,  where 
they  do  the  two-mile  run  in  something  under  four  min- 
utes. There  is  a  chance  observation  in  "Silas  Marner" 
that  "youth  is  not  exclusively  the  period  of  folly!" 

Of  a  summer  evening,  however,  it  might  not  be  alto- 
gether unpleasant  in  some  parts  of  that  cloudland. 
Could  we  return  with  the  happy  little  mule-boy  who  has 
just  now  come  "  jodeling"  down  from  the  passes,  doubt- 
less we  should  find  the  sound  of  goat  bells  both  romantic 
and  soothing  up  there,  and  might  even  in  time  muster  a 
respectable  show  of  excitement  over  the  passage  of  the 
four-horse  diligences  as  they  rattle  by  in  storms  of 
dust.  Certainly  we  should  come  across  many  a  charm- 
ing little  wayside  inn  far  up  those  winding  roads  that 
climb  to  solitude,  and  they  would  have  overhanging 
eaves  and  carved  wooden  balconies  and  boxes  of  rich 
orange  nasturtiums  before  the  tiny  windows  with  the 
lozenge  panes ;  and  when  we  pushed  open  the  door  and 
walked  in,  there  would  be  a  great  stone  stove  in  a  bar 
parlor  and  the  face  of  William  Tell  on  an  old  clock 
behind  the  door. 

One  reads  in  "Hyperion"  of  a  stolid  Englishman  so 
far  forgetting  his  cherished  reserve  as  to  exclaim:  "This 
Interlaken!    This  Interlaken!     It  is  the  loveliest  spot 


INTERLAKEN  295 

on  the  face  of  the  earth!"  It  is  a  nice  question  as  to 
whether  any  one  might  not  easily  be  guilty  of  like  en- 
thusiasm, provided  the  time  were  evening,  and  that  he 
were  capable  of  responding  to  something  of  such  pas- 
sionate sympathy  for  mountain  and  valley  as  breathes 
through  Schiller's  "  Wilhelm  Tell."  It  is  impossible  not 
to  be  moved  by  such  unusual  beauty  or  uplifted  by 
such  sublimity.  Here  jangled  nerves  recover  rhythm 
and  dulled  interests  vitality.  Boredom  and  ennui  fall 
away,  and  work  and  responsibility  acquire  new  value 
and  lustre.  In  the  still  of  these  pine-scented  evenings, 
luminous  with  enormous  stars,  a  keen  and  sobering 
joy  of  life  takes  full  and  welcome  possession.  Here,  if 
anywhere,  the  sun  of  youth  will  have  its  afterglow. 

There  is  something  like  benediction  in  a  night-vision 
of  the  magic  Jungfrau  —  peerless  "bride  of  quietness." 
With  such  an  appealing  spectacle  in  view,  what  wonder 
that  the  houses  have  so  many  windows,  or  the  night 
"  a  thousand  eyes."  It  is  the  master  touch  to  Interlaken, 
completing  and  glorifying  the  picture  as  it  banks  the 
far  end  of  the  valley  with  towering  clouds  of  snow. 
Neither  Mont  Blanc  nor  the  Matterhorn  may  rival  this 
queen  of  the  Alps,  so  charming  in  outline,  vast  in  bulk, 
and  ravishing  in  purity.  It  could  not  fail  to  dominate 
any  region  of  earth,  and  Interlaken  acknowledges  its  su- 
premacy with  a  completeness  that  is  not  without  a  cer- 
tain flavor  of  proprietorship.  Each  hillside  has  its  view- 
pavilion,  belvedere,  or  simple  clearing,  like  so  many 


296     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

chapels  for  devotion.  We  come  each  morning  for  our 
sunrise  view,  pass  the  day  in  adoration,  marvel  at  sunset 
and  the  afterglow,  and  close  the  evening  with  a  wonder- 
wist  contemplation  of  the  phantom  peak  in  moonlight. 
Of  these  "stations"  of  the  mount,  the  afterglow  is  the 
climax.  Nor  is  the  reason  far  to  seek,  once  you  have  stood 
among  the  awed  and  reverent  throng  that  crowds  the 
Hohenmatte  each  late  afternoon,  and  have  seen  black 
night  about  you  in  the  valley,  while,  for  an  hour  or  more 
after,  the  snowfields  of  the  Jungf rau's  summits  still  con- 
tinued to  blaze  brilliantly  in  full  sunshine.  And  then,  as 
we  watched,  there  came  the  color-miracle  of  glittering 
white  merging  into  every  hue  of  the  rose,  into  scarlet 
stains  and  a  deluge  of  crimson,  into  deepening  tints  and 
sombre  shades  of  blue,  and  finally  fading  gradually  to 
a  misty,  grayish,  cloudy  shadow  as  the  last  fires  burned 
out  and  the  great  mountain  paled  to  a  phantom  of  the 

night. 

"When  daylight  dies, 
The  azure  skies 
Seem  sparkling  with  a  thousand  eyes, 
That  watch  with  grace 
From  depths  of  space 
The  sleeping  Jungfrau's  lovely  face." 

How  spirit-like,  how  faint  and  fair  the  magic  mountain 
swims  at  night  among  its  silver  cloud  veils !  What  seren- 
ity and  majesty  invest  it!  Did  God  here  plan  another 
flood,  and  stay  His  hand  when  He  had  heaped  an  angry 
ocean  into  this  dread  tidal  wave  and  left  it  piled  in  sus- 


INTERLAKEN  297 

pended  motion,  with  giant  frozen  seas,  furious  with 
foam,  mounting  to  that  appalling  crest  that  seems  to 
dash  its  icy  spray  against  the  very  skies?  No  man  may 
look  with  undaunted  heart  upon  the  chaos  of  its  glit- 
tering snowy  plains,  vast,  chaste,  and  spectral  in  the 
moonlight.  How  base  and  contemptible  appear  the 
petty  pursuits  of  man  in  the  presence  of  such  thrilling 
sublimity !  It  reconciles  him  to  his  lot  in  life,  where  his 
"much"  is  really  so  very  little;  and  inspires  courage, 
and  shames  the  heart  from  low,  ignoble  ends. 

There  is  reverent  awe  in  thoughts  of  the  breathless 
hush  of  the  far,  white  vales  no  man  has  trod;  the  remote 
and  shuddering  abysses  into  which  the  very  birds  of  the 
air  look  down  with  affright.  There  is  magic  of  inspira- 
tion in  its  sublime  aloofness  —  as  with  those  *' unheard 
melodies  that  are  sweetest,"  those  supremest  joys  that 
lie  beyond  attainment.  Through  the  hidden,  echoing 
caverns  of  this  fair,  pallid  mount  wan  spirits  of  Snow- 
land  may  even  now  be  dancing;  along  its  lonely,  lovely 
glades  are  "horns  of  elfland  faintly  blowing."  Of  its 
profoundest  and  most  secret  mysteries  not  even  the 
friendly  moon  may  have  too  curious  knowledge  — 
mysteries  unknown  of  man  since  first  the  morning  stars 
sang  together. 


VENICE 

11    P.M.   TO   MIDNIGHT 


f^^)'iih^mi1i\r..^rl 


..i'<-;-v  - 


^ 


VENICE 

11    P.M.    TO   MIDNIGHT 

A  July  moon  over,  a  gondola  under,  a  tenor  lilting  a 
barcarolle,  thousands  with  you  on  the  Grand  Canal  — 
Venice  a  festa !  From  a  near-by  belfry,  a  clock  booms 
eleven.  Eleven !  and  we  are  only  to  the  Foscari  Palace. 
An  hour  ago  we  started  at  the  Rialto,  a  thousand  gay 
gondolas  with  bunting,  lanterns,  and  greens,  every- 
body jostling,  singing,  and  shouting,  and  in  the  centre, 
like  the  queen-jewel  of  a  tiara,  the  brilliant  barca  filled 
with  orchestra  and  singers  and  ablaze  in  a  myriad  of 
colored  lights.  This  is  a  great  occasion,  the  serenata 
ufficiale.  The  festa  of  the  Redentore  is  near  its  close. 
Church  portals  hang  with  mulberry  branches  begged  by 
the  monks  of  St.  Francis,  and  the  people  have  feasted 
royally  on  the  luscious  black  fruit  bought  at  the  little 
stands  on  the  Giudecca  quays.  Last  Sunday  the  priestly 
procession  in  full  canonicals  crossed  the  bridge  of  boats 
to  the  Giudecca  on  its  annual  pilgrimage  to  the  church 
of  the  Redentore.  '  Venice  thus  sustains  her  reputation 
as  a  reverencer  of  traditions ;  they  are  burning  lamps  still 
in  San  Marco  Cathedral  for  an  innocent  man  who  was 
put  to  death  hundreds  of  years  ago.  And  so  the  church 


302     AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

of  the  Redentore  is  packed  to  suffocation  at  least  one 
day  of  the  year,  and  after  that,  with  the  reUgious  rites 
off  her  mind,  Venice  suddenly  gives  up  trying  to  look 
solemn  and  bursts  out  into  the  joy  and  tumult  of  the 
"Official  Serenade." 

This  year  it  is  splendid.  Every  moment  belated  gondo- 
las are  arriving  like  flocks  of  black  swans,  with  fresh 
quotas  of  enthusiasm  and  an  increase  of  gayety  and 
confusion.  What  laughter  and  fun!  The  Canal  is  a 
hopeless  jam.  Dancing  lanterns  play  light  and  shade  on 
thousands  of  bright  faces,  and  the  gondoliers,  in  fresh 
white  blouses  and  blue  sailor  collars,  look  like  shadows 
as  they  lean  silently  on  their  long  oars.  In  the  intervals 
of  the  music  there  is  something  weird  and  frantic  to 
both  their  labor  and  their  language  as  they  agonize 
to  protect  their  beloved  boats  from  scratches  and 
smashes  and  at  the  same  time  retain  positions  of  van- 
tage in  this  ice-floe  of  a  tangle  as  the  harca  struggles 
forward  a  few  difficult  yards  to  its  next  point  of  seren- 
ade. There  are  ten  or  a  dozen  of  these  serenade-points, 
and  at  each  the  writhing  flotilla  pauses,  and  singers 
and  orchestra  provide  the  entertainment.  It  is  finest 
to  be  afloat,  but,  oh,  the  land!  Red-and-green  fire 
throws  into  enormous  relief  fairylike  towers  and  turrets 
that  have  figured  in  song  and  story  for  a  thousand  years; 
and  in  windows,  terraces,  balconies,  and  tops  there 
throngs  a  multitude  that  none  of  us  may  number.  Every 
face  is  turned  toward  the  harca;  every  handkerchief 


VENICE  303 

waves  our  way.  An  occasional  searchlight  darts  im- 
partially over  them  and  us,  picks  out  a  spot  in  sudden 
brilliance  and  as  suddenly  drops  it  back  into  blacker 
obscurity.  But  in  that  brief  flashing,  scattered  friends 
have  discovered  friends,  and  gondolas  are  started  inch- 
ing toward  each  other,  and  presently  parties  are  joined 
and  ice  boxes  uncovered.  After  covertly  studying  the 
apparently  aimless  movements  of  our  own  gondola  I 
finally  unearthed  a  dark  conspiracy  in  the  reunion  line 
that  interested  only  Paolo,  our  gondolier,  and  an  occa- 
sional crony  at  a  neighboring  oar.  Paolo's  face  and  man- 
ners are  innocence  itself,  but  his  guile  is  fathoms  deep. 
We  could  not  understand  why  he  did  not  get  us  nearer 
to  the  barca^  the  universal  objective,  until  we  saw  the 
bottle  pass  between  him  and  a  raven-haired,  flashing- 
toothed  athlete  at  the  nearest  oar  and  surprised  the 
quick  greeting  and  low,  musical  laugh  of  congratula- 
tion and  content.  But  who  minds,  with  Venice  afesta! 
And  Venice  is  Paolo's  —  not  ours,  alas ! 

Night  on  the  Grand  Canal !  What  a  realm  of  witchery ! 
"The  horns  of  elfland  faintly  blowing."  What  lullaby 
could  soothe  more  sweetly  than  the  dip  of  the  oar  or  the 
soft  plash  of  the  dark  water  under  the  gondola's  prow! 
The  charm  of  unreality  invests  the  shadowy,  spiritual- 
ized palaces  rising  like  silver  wraiths  from  the  quiver- 
ing stream.  The  summer  moon  touches  each  carven 
arch  and  column,  each  stone-lace  balcony,  each  fretted 
embrasure,  each  delicate  ogive  window  and  sculptured 


304    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

capital,  and  lo,  a  magician's  wand  has  reared  a  dream- 
land of  unearthly  beauty ! 

In  the  soft  and  odorous  darkness  the  birds  that  love 
this  Venice  are  securely  nesting  —  the  gulls,  that  in 
winter  whirl  up  the  canals  with  harsh  clamors  of  the 
coming  storms,  are  now  at  rest  along  the  beaches  of 
their  blue  Adriatic;  the  swallows  and  pigeons  are  sleep- 
ing among  the  red  tiles  of  the  crooked  gables;  the  spar- 
rows are  aloft  among  the  mulberry-trees  of  the  Giudecca 
and  the  sycamores  of  the  Public  Gardens;  the  canaries 
are  dim  spots  in  fragrant  magnolia-trees  or  in  spreading 
beds  of  purple  oleander;  and  the  ortolans,  robins,  and 
blackbirds  nestle  among  azaleas  and  the  heavy  festoons 
of  banksias.  All  their  music  now  is  hushed,  and  they 
are  as  mute  and  soundless  to-night  as  were  their  awe- 
struck sires,  long  centuries  since,  when  gentle  St.  Fran- 
cis read  them  his  offices  under  the  cypresses  of  Del 
Deserto. 

The  night  is  fragrant  with  the  breath  of  roses,  carna- 
tions, and  camellias  from  palace  gardens  and  with  spicy 
honeysuckle  from  the  neighboring  Zattere.  Visions  of 
stirring  romance  and  adventure  crowd  in  on  the  mind. 
Down  the  pebbly  paths  of  yonder  garden  surely  some 
lover  has  just  passed,  brave  in  velvet  doublet  and  silken 
hose,  from  laying  his  roses  at  the  satin-slippered  feet 
of  his  lady!  Presently  he  will  drift  this  way  in  his 
cushioned  gondola  and  the  soft  night  winds  will  bear 
her  the  mellow  throb  of  his  guitar  and  many  a  plaintive 


VENICE,    GRAND    CANAL   FROM    THE    PIAZZETTA 


VENICE  305 

sigh  of  love  and  Venice.  But  hush !  from  out  that  old 
black  Watergate,  in  bravo's  cloak  and  with  muffled  oar, 
who  bears  the  helpless  lady  away  through  the  deep 
shadows  under  the  garden  wall  ?  Hard  with  your  oar, 
my  gondolier!  A  purse  of  golden  ducats  if  you  speed 
me  to  San  Marco!  I  shall  slip  this  scribbled  note  into 
the  Lion's  Mouth!  Ho,  for  the  vengeance  of  The  Ten! 
If  it  were  day,  what  a  different  scene  we  should  have 
on  this  twisting  sea-serpent  of  a  Grand  Canal.  Venice 
would  then  be  a  sparkling  vision  resplendent  with  every 
sea  charm,  tinted  with  pinks  and  opals  and  pearls,  and 
as  changeful  and  full  of  caprice  as  any  other  coquette. 
Instead  of  this  spangle  of  stars  above,  we  should  have 
a  vast  expanse  of  pale-blue  sky,  cloudless  and  glittering, 
and  the  misty  reflections  that  now  sink  faintly  deep 
down  into  these  dark  waters  would  vanish  before  a 
stream  so  azure  and  brilliant  that  it  would  seem  as  if  a 
portion  of  the  sky  above  had  been  cut  and  fitted  between 
the  palace  fronts  below.  And  how  these  mellow  old 
churches  and  houses  would  glow  and  their  wavering 
shadows  shake  in  the  stream!  The  exquisite  traceries 
on  balcony,  arch,  and  column  would  seem  carven  of 
ivory,  and  from  under  the  red-tiled  eaves  grim  heads  of 
stone  would  stare  down  over  sculptured  cornices  and 
peep  out  through  delicate  quatrefoils  and  creamy  folia- 
tions. And  into  these  wonder-palaces  the  eager  sun 
would  peer  to  see  the  lofty  ceilings  all  frescoed  and  gilded, 
the  floors  of  colored  marbles,  the  carven  furniture  and 


306     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

faded  rich  hangings,  and  the  deep  and  arched  recesses 
that  overlook  the  gardens  in  the  rear.  And  what  gar- 
dens! Mellow  brick  walls  festooned  in  pale-blue  wis- 
taria and  lined  with  hedges  of  white  thorn,  a  solemn 
cypress  in  either  corner,  clumps  of  fig-trees  and  mul- 
berry and  golden  magnolia,  airy  grapevine  pergolas  of 
slender,  osier-bound  willow,  little  paths  snugly  bor- 
dered with  box,  trellises  of  gorgeous  roses,  and  here  and 
there  some  antique  statue  or  rude  stone  urn  half  hid- 
den in  color  masses  of  scarlet  pomegranates  and  snowy 
lilies. 

The  day-life  of  this  famed  waterway  is  very  gay  and 
picturesque.  Here  is  both  energy  and  idleness,  and  jolly 
friendships  and  laughter  and  light-heartedness.  Deep- 
laden  market  scows  pass  ponderously  by,  piled  high  with 
fruits  and  vegetables,  the  rowers  singing  at  their  oars 
or  shouting  voluble  greetings.  Fishermen  step  slowly 
along,  balancing  baskets  on  their  heads.  Swarthy,  black- 
eyed  women,  in  dark  skirts  and  gay  neckerchiefs  and 
with  mauve-colored  shawls  falling  gracefully  from  head 
to  waist,  throng  the  riva  shops  and  bargain  over  pur- 
chases with  violent  gestures  and  eager  earnestness. 
Priests  returning  from  mass  in  rusty  black  cassocks 
loiter  among  the  noisy  groups  and  are  received  with 
profound  bows  and  reverent  touches  of  the  cap.  Husky, 
barefooted  girl  water-carriers,  known  as  the  bigolantiy 
stride  by  with  copper  vessels  hanging  from  the  yoke 
across  their  shoulders  and  offer  you  a  supply  for  a 


VENICE  307 

soldo.  Up  the  intersecting  canals  endless  processions 
are  passing  over  the  arching  bridges,  and  you  pause, 
perhaps,  to  observe  the  varied  life  from  a  place  by  the 
rail:  girl  bead-stringers  with  wooden  trays  full  of  tur- 
quoise bits;  garrulous  pleasure  parties  off  for  the  Lido; 
laboring  boatmen,  breaking  out  into  song;  old  men  and 
women  shuffling  along  to  gossip  and  quarrel  around  the 
carven  well-heads  of  the  little  campi;  and  now  and  then 
some  withered  old  aristocrat  on  his  way  to  have  coffee 
and  chess  at  Florian's  and  then  a  solemn  smoke  over 
the  "Gazetta  di  Venezia"  before  the  Caffe  Orientale 
in  the  warm  morning  sun  of  the  riva  of  the  Schiavoni. 

How  well  the  Foscari  Palace,  there,  looks  by  night. 
The  Foscari  Palace  —  poor  old  Foscari !  It  is  a  sad 
but  glowing  chapter  his  name  recalls.  Here  lived  the 
great  Doge,  the  least  serene  of  all  their  Serenities. 
Grown  old  in  power  and  worn  with  foreign  wars,  his 
heart  broke  over  the  treason  of  his  worthless  son,  and 
the  helpless,  sobbing  old  man,  no  longer  of  use,  was 
deposed  by  The  Ten  in  his  tottering  age.  The  very  next 
day  he  died  —  and  there,  in  that  palace.  Just  now, 
when  the  red-fire  glowed,  a  pale  campanile  stood  out 
of  the  gloom  to  the  right  and  beyond  the  palace;  that 
is  where  they  buried  him,  in  the  church  of  the  Frari. 
With  belated  reverence  and  remorseful  at  having  dishon- 
ored him  a  few  hours  since,  they  proceeded  to  make  his- 
tory in  Venice  with  the  splendor  of  his  obsequies.  They 
clothed  him  in  cloth  of  gold,  set  his  ducal  cap  upon  his 


308    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

head,  buckled  on  his  golden  spurs,  and  laid  his  great 
sword  by  his  side.  And  thus  in  solemn  pomp,  attended 
by  nobles  and  lighted  by  countless  tapers,  the  pageant 
passed  out  of  San  Marco,  crossed  the  Rialto,  and  came  at 
last  to  the  church  of  the  Frari.  And  there  what  is  left 
of  Doge  Foscari  lies  to  this  day.  It  is  not  a  poor  place 
to  be  in,  either.  The  bones  of  Titian  and  Canova  are 
beside  him,  a  Titian  masterpiece  glorifies  the  choir,  and 
on  the  opposite  wall  are  two  altar  pieces  of  Bellini's  so 
lovely  as  to  mark  the  very  zenith  of  Venetian  art. 

A  pause  in  the  music  of  the  serenade  brings  us  sud- 
denly back  to  the  Venice  of  to-night.  A  vast  scramble 
is  in  progress.  We  jostle  and  scrape  forward  another 
few  yards.  The  barca  sends  a  light  hose-spray  to  right, 
left,  and  in  front  in  a  desperate  effort  to  clear  a  passage. 
Dilatory  or  helpless  gondoliers  are  lightly  sprinkled, 
and  all  those  of  us  who  a  moment  since  had  been  envy- 
ing their  good  positions  now  basely  give  way  to  howls 
of  joy.  No  use  to  struggle;  all  gondoliers  are  alike  in 
such  a  crush.  A  champion  Castellani  is  no  better  than 
Paolo,  if  he  is  strong  enough  to  bend  copper  centesimi 
pieces  between  thumb  and  finger.  Presently  we  stop. 
The  tumult  rages,  good-naturedly  and  jolly,  as  the 
jockeying  goes  on  for  improved  positions.  And  then 
there  falls  a  sudden  silence.  A  tenor  is  singing  the 
*'Cielo  e  Mar"  of  "La  Gioconda."  You  lie  at  full 
length  on  the  cushions,  the  gondola  lifting  slowly  with  an 
indolent  sway,  and  under  the  spell  of  the  dreamy, 


VENICE  309 

witching  music  you  watch  the  smoke  of  your  cigar  as  it 
drifts  up  and  over  and  out  and  away  toward  the  Httle 
streets  in  the  dark. 

Ah,  little  streets  of  Venice;  under  whatever  name  of 
calle  or  corto  or  salizzaduy  you  are  just  the  same  — 
bedraggled  and  delightful!  What  rare  surprises  are 
always  reserved  for  each  revisit  —  an  overlooked  door- 
way, a  balcony,  some  sculptured  detail!  If  the  house- 
fronts  are  plastered  and  patched  —  still  they  are 
picturesquely  discolored.  If  the  fantastic  windows  are 
out  of  plumb  the  gay  shutters,  nevertheless,  are  charm- 
ingly faded  and  there  are  pretty  faces  behind  the  bars. 
The  roofs  let  in  the  rain  —  but  how  rookish  and  rick- 
ety they  are.  The  battered  doors  are  low  —  but  they 
have  knockers  that  are  ponderous  and  imposing.  Name 
plates  are  surprisingly  large  and  keyholes  deep  and 
cavernous.  The  stirrup-handled  bell-wires  run  almost 
to  the  tiny  iron  balconies,  away  up  under  the  oval  win- 
dows of  the  eaves  —  those  little  balconies  that  for  ages 
have  never  refused  sympathetic  regard  for  the  hum  of 
slippered  feet  on  the  stone  pavements  below.  And  there 
are  weathered  store-fronts  with  corrugated  iron  shut- 
ters and  gilt  signs  on  black  boards;  and  under  your  feet 
in  the  pavement  are  odd  little  slits  for  water  to  run  off 
in,  that  remind  you  of  openings  in  letter-drops  at  home. 
There,  too,  are  the  shops  whose  modest  output  ar- 
rays the  Venetian  poor  to  such  advantage,  and  there 
are  the  stores  and  markets  where  they  bargain  for 


310     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

frittole  of  white  flour  and  oil,  or  polenta  of  ground  corn, 
and  personally  pick  out  their  sardines  at  ten  for  a  penny, 
or  indulge  in  a  fine  brunrino  as  large  as  a  trout.  There 
one  sees  picturesque  lanterns  and  gay  little  window- 
boxes  full  of  flowers  away  up  among  the  chimneys  and 
tin  waterpipes.  The  rooms,  perhaps,  seem  dark  and 
gloomy  to  us  of  modern  houses,  but  you  stop  with  a 
thrill  of  delight  at  the  happiness  in  the  voice  that  carols  a 
gay  air  from  "Traviata"  somewhere  in  their  depths,  and 
you  look  up  with  a  smile  at  the  bright  bird  that  loves 
that  dark  cage.  Some  carping  and  fussy  visitors  may 
compare  these  rude  homes  to  the  dungeons  under  the 
"  Leads  "  beyond  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  but  how  could  they 
consistently  be  other  than  they  are,  venerable  and  dirty, 
with  splotches  of  paint  and  charcoal  markings  and  half- 
effaced  pencil-drawings,  of  cracked  plaster  full  of  holes, 
and  all  toned  down  by  time  and  weather  to  a  uniform 
mellow  gray!  Of  course,  such  critics  accept,  with  all 
Italy,  the  proud  ones  with  the  marble  tablets  that  tell 
that  Marco  Polo  lived  there,  or  Petrarch,  or  Titian,  or 
Garibaldi,  but  the  nameless  and  undistinguished  many 
are  quite  as  worth  preserving.  Thus  one  appreciates  the 
inspiration  of  the  authorities  and  applauds  their  indus- 
try in  profusely  tacking  up  those  little  ovals  of  blue  tin 
with  the  jealous  warning  in  white  letters, "  Divieto  di 
Affisione'*  —  that  is,  "Don't  spoil  these  walls  with 
placards!"  So,  peace,  harping  Philistine,  to  whom  no- 
thing is  ever  hallowed !  Though  your  emotions  are  thin 


VENICE  311 

and  your  enthusiasms  a-chill,  respect  these  little  by- 
ways; and  if  not  for  themselves,  then  for  where  they 
bring  you  —  to  fascinating  curiosity  shops  of  the  anti- 
quarians up  the  back  courts;  to  charming  campi  where 
you  stand  by  graven  well-heads,  wonderwist  in  the 
lengthening  shadows  of  historic  churches;  to  lichen- 
grown  bridges,  themselves  pictures,  arched  over  sunny 
canals  overhung  by  gabled  windows  and  flanked  by  gar- 
den walls  pale  blue  with  wistaria;  or  (could  you  have  for- 
gotten?) to  nothing  less  than  the  great  Piazza  itself 
and  glittering  San  Marco,  the  supreme  jewel-casket  of 
the  world. 

But  the  wistful  "Cielo  e  Mar"  is  ended,  and  we  move 
along  to  opposite  the  Accademia,  treasure-temple  of 
Venetian  art.  You  uncovered  just  then,  my  comrade  of 
the  night,  and  out  of  reverence  to  the  Titian  Assump- 
tion, I  dare  say.  I  uncovered,  too,  but  it  was  to  the 
madonnas  and  saints  of  Giovanni  Bellini.  Do  you  know 
them  well.'^  No?  Not  the  Santa  Conversazione?  Ah, 
then  life  still  holds  a  delight  in  reserve  for  you. 

A  sudden  great  and  universal  hush  has  fallen  on  canal 
and  shore.  Another  tenor,  sweet  and  vibrant  as  a  bell, 
breathes  that  tenderest  of  all  serenades,  the  one  from 
"DonPasquale."  Atall  times  irresistible, it  seemsdoubly 
so  now.  The  faces  that  you  see  are  grave  and  eager  and 
transported.  The  silence  and  rapt  attention  is  a  tribute 
beyond  words  to  composer  and  singer;  and  where  else 
but  in  Italy  would  a  multitude  hush  to  a  whisper  when 


SU    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

music  sounds,  and  break  into  wild  tumult  when  it  ceases? 
A  few  weeks  here,  and  one  comes  to  understand  that 
music  is  the  very  breath  and  life  of  these  people.  The 
vagabond  Venetian,  penniless  but  happy,  comes  out  of 
his  doze  in  a  corner  of  a  sunny  riva  and  before  his  mouth 
has  settled  from  its  yawn  it  is  rounded  into  a  song.  A 
bottle  of  cheap  wine,  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  a  guitar  pro- 
vide joy  enough  for  an  army  in  the  family  parties  of  the 
poor  that  float  out  on  to  the  lagoon  in  rough  market 
gondolas  at  sunset.  Verdi  and  Rossini  make  work  light 
for  women,  walk  to  business  with  the  men,  and  hum 
comfort  and  courage  all  day.  And  so  one  needs  to  be 
discreet  and  silent  when  a  solo  begins  or  be  prepared  for 
an  instant  and  tempestuous  rebuke.  But  there  seems 
little  need  for  a  warning  to-night,  with  the  hand  of 
Venice  so  strong  upon  us. 

Between  serenades  one  takes  his  ease  on  the  cushions 
and  looks  about  on  the  people  around  him.  Some  one 
begins  to  whistle  the  jolly  old  "Carnival  of  Venice," 
and  it  is  promptly  taken  up  on  all  sides,  bolder  spirits 
even  venturing  upon  the  variations.  A  German  gives  us 
the  Fatherland's  version,  about  the  hat  that  had  three 
corners.  An  enormous  Spaniard  near  at  hand  bellows 
a  fragment  of  "I  Pagliacci,"  and  is  thunderously  ap- 
plauded. His  friends,  embarrassed  but  elated,  urge 
him  on  to  a  second  effort,  which  is  received  with  indif- 
ference. On  his  third  attempt  he  is  hissed.  Such  is  the 
caprice  of  an  open-air  audience  in  Italy. 


VENICE  S13 

The  jolly  stag  party  in  the  gondola  to  the  right  presses 
upon  us  the  hospitality  of  the  capacious  hamper,  which 
we  decline  with  a  thousand  thanks  and  in  gestures  more 
intelligible  than  our  pidgin-Italian.  At  our  elbow  two 
slender  American  women  in  black  provide  excellent 
eavesdropping  entertainment.  Here  is  talk  to  our  liking, 
thrilling  with  the  names  of  men  of  fame  who  knew  and 
loved  this  Venice.  "Just  over  there,  Helen,  is  the  palace 
where  Browning  lived  and  died.  What  an  elaborate 
place  for  a  poet!  Howells  lived;'next  door,  you  know, 
when  he  wrote  his  'Venetian  Life.'  These  places  are 
ever  so  much  finer  than  the  one  farther  down  where 
Goldoni  wrote  his  comedies.  Oh,  don't  you  know  the 
Goldoni  house?  It  is  this  side  the  Rialto,  just  opposite 
the  Byron  Palace  with  the  blue-striped  gondola  posts." 
"I  think,"  says  the  other,  "that  the  memories  are  quite 
as  rich  farther  on.  At  the  Hotel  Europa,  you  remember, 
Chateaubriand  once  lived,  and  so  did  George  Eliot; 
and  from  there  you  can  see  the  Danieli  where  George 
Sand  and  Alfred  de  Musset  sought  happiness  but  only 
found  misery."  At  mention  of  the  Europa  the  face  of 
her  friend  is  transfigured  and  our  own  hearts  beat  high 
in  sympathy  with  the  reverence  of  the  lowered  voice: 
"Wagner  wrote  'Tristan  und  Isolde'  at  the  Europa.  He 
died  in  the  palace  where  the  three  trees  stand,  away  down 
beyond  the  Rialto."  Oh,  deathless  Venice!  Oh,  uni- 
versal Love !  They  marvel  at  this  elfin  world  —  the 
English  father,  mother,  and  son  in  the  gondola  ahead. 


314    AROUND  THE   CL(X:K  IN  EUROPE 

"It  is  a  mode  of  mind." 

"Or  a  form  of  hypnosis;  a  psychological  phase." 

The  boy  turns  from  the  distant  fairy  candles  of  San 
Marco  and  regards  them  with  amaze  and  disapproval. 
His  enthusiasms  are  keen  and  a-quiver  and  the  fresh- 
ness of  life's  morning  is  on  his  face.  "Don't  analyze," 
he  says.  "Just  breathe  it  and  feel  it."  The  parents 
exchange  amused  glances  and  smile  indulgently.  "  'Out 
of  the  mouth  of  babes  and  sucklings,'"  quotes  the 
father  under  his  breath;  but  we  know,  and  they  know, 
that  they  have  been  answered. 

Gorgeous  silks  and  priceless  tapestries  and  rare 
Oriental  stuffs  have  doubtless  often  hung  from  the  bal- 
conies of  the  palace  on  the  right  in  the  great  gala  days 
of  the  wonderful  past  when  the  Carnival  lasted  half 
a  year.  The  law  had  not  yet  ruled  that  all  gondolas  must 
be  a  uniform  solemn  black,  and  the  cradle-like  boat  of  to- 
day, for  all  its  brass  dolphins  and  carven  scenes  from  the 
"Gerusalemme  Liberata,"  would  have  cut  a  sorry  figure 
beside  the  sumptuous  ones  of  an  earlier  time,  with  their 
mountings  of  silver  and  gold,  profusion  of  rich  colors, 
upholstery  of  enormous  value,  and  bearing  owners  of 
fabulous  wealth  whose  names  were  written  in  the  city's 
Book  of  Gold.  Ah,  those  were  the  triumphant  days 
when  foreign  princes  waited,  half  a  hundred  at  a  time, 
to  have  the  judgment  of  the  Venetian  Senate  on  the 
affairs  of  their  states;  when  royalty  was  no  unusual 
spectacle  on  the  Piazza  of  San  Marco;  when  the  argo- 


VENICE  315 

sies  of  the  world,  "with  portly  sail,"  came  to  anchor  in 
these  waters;  when  Dante  and  Petrarch  were  received 
as  ambassadors;  when  the  Admirable  Crichton  would 
be  tossed  a  hundred  ducats  for  amusing  the  Senate  with 
an  extemporized  Latin  oration;  and  when  his  Serenity, 
the  Doge,  on  Ascension  Day  fared  forth  in  dazzling 
splendor  to  espouse  the  sea  from  the  throne  of  his  sump- 
tuous Bucentoro.  The  glory  of  that  old  and  powerful 
Venice  can  never  pass  from  the  memory  of  men.  Whole 
libraries  preserve  it  in  imperishable  record.  It  is  inter- 
esting, too,  to  note  how  it  affected  bygone  visitors  just 
as  it  does  us  to-day  —  as  when  one  turns  the  pages  of 
John  Evelyn's  "Diary"  and  smiles  to  see  how  soon  it 
was  after  his  "portmanteau"  had  been  "visited"  at  the 
Dogana  customs-offices  that  he  pronounced  the  Mer- 
ceria  to  be  "one  of  the  most  delicious  streets  in  the 
world  for  the  sweetness  of  it,"  and  learned  with  amaze 
of  the  skill  and  rapidity  of  Venetian  artisans  who,  while 
King  Henry  III  of  England  was  one  day  visiting  the 
Arsenal,  built  a  galley,  rigged,  and  finished  it  for 
launching,  and  cast  a  cannon  of  sixteen  thousand  pounds 
and  put  it  on  board,  —  and  all  while  his  Majesty  was 
having  luncheon.  There  was,  indeed,  a  great  deal  of  the 
marvelous  about  men  who  could  contrive  glass  goblets 
so  sensitive  as  to  betray  the  presence  of  poison,  or  who 
could  at  so  early  an  age  make  such  exquisite  books  as 
the  Aldine  classics,  to  the  despair  of  publishers  for  hun- 
dreds of  years  to  follow. 


316  AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Just  now,  in  the  fitful  glare  of  red-lights,  hundreds  of 
eager  Venetian  faces,  transported  as'always  by  the  spirit 
of  Carnival,  were  seen  in  excited  groupings  in  every  nook 
and  corner  of  the  neighboring  fondamente.  One  thinks 
how  different  is  the  present  scene  from  those  these  peo- 
ple are  accustomed  to  look  upon  on  other  nights.  You 
would  find  them  then  in  the  little  family  squares  whose 
corners  are  shrines  of  the  Virgin  set  with  flowers  and  il- 
lumined with  candles.  Husband  and  wife  will,  perhaps, 
have  spent  the  early  evening  in  gallery  seats  at  the  Teatro 
Goldoni,  and  Giovanni,  weary  with  a  long  day  at  the 
traghettOy  would  have  finished  thumbing  the  headlines 
of  the  day's  "L'  Adriatico"  and  would  now  have  his 
friends  about  him,  and  Maria  would  let  the  bambino 
stay  up  a  little  longer,  and  all  would  feast  with  pro- 
digious merriment  and  satisfaction  on  the  ever-popular 
sowpe  au  pidocchi,  —  which  is  mussel-broth  flavored 
with  spices,  —  to  be  followed  by  Chioggia  eels  and  white 
wine  of  Policella.  Neighboring  women  would,  of  course, 
drop  in  for  their  dearly  loved  gossip,  hatless,  with  silver 
pins  fastening  their  blue-black  hair,  coral  beads  around 
their  necks,  and  draping  shawls  thrown  over  their 
bright  waists.  And  presently  some  withered  old  coffee- 
roaster  would  drag  himself  in  with  his  fragrant  ovens 
glowing,  the  bright  flames  leaping,  and  toffee-venders 
would  plead  for  sales.  With  the  ease  of  sleight-of-hand 
a  guitar  suddenly  makes  its  appearance  out  of  nowhere 
and  everybody  enthusiastically  joins  in  some  haunt- 


VENICE  317 

ing,  languorous,  dreamy  villotte  dear  to  the  hearts  of 
Venetians.  Just  around  the  corner  lounging  groups 
would  be  scattered  before  cafe  doors  and  voices  would 
be  humming  in  low,  eager  talk.  The  usual  wrangling 
and  bargaining  would  be  in  progress  at  the  cooking- 
stalls  piled  high  with  fish  and  garlic,  polenta,  cabbages, 
and  apples.  In  near-by  trattorie  with  sanded  floors  art- 
istic bohemia,  with  ambition  numbed  by  the  latest  Afri- 
can sirocco,  battens  on  bowls  of  macaroni  in  a  turmoil  of 
smoke  and  confusion.  In  the  dark  interior  of  a  neighbor- 
ing wineshop  one  would  find  the  wonderful  golden- 
browns  that  Rembrandt  loved,  as  a  single  oil  lamp 
glows  on  the  weathered  faces  of  a  circle  of  old  cronies. 
And  somewhere,  just  at  hand,  a  gondolier's  weird  and 
fascinating  cry  of  "Ah,  Stall!"  would  be  heard;  and  all 
about  them  Venice  would  be  crooning  her  ancient  lull- 
aby in  the  ceaseless,  low  lapping  of  water  on  stone  steps. 
All  together  and  forward  once  more,  to  opposite  the 
church  of  the  Salute.  We  have  lost  our  recent  neighbors 
and  have  an  entirely  new  set.  The  changes  in  the 
grouping  are  like  the  shuffling  units  of  a  kaleidoscope. 
A  brilliant  company  is  gathered  on  the  balconies  of 
Desdemona's  Palace,  but  Othello  is  not  among  them  — 
another  piece  of  calculated  devilty,  no  doubt,  on  the 
part  of  the  crafty  I  ago!  Still,  Portia  is  there  from 
flowery  Belmont  and  with  her  are  Jessica  and  Lorenzo. 
The  music  is  now  from  melodious  old  "  Dinorah,"  charm- 
ingly rendered  and  just  as  soothing  as  the  first  time 


318     AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

one  ever  heard  it.  The  Salute  stands  out  impressively 
in  her  great  domes  and  elaborate  spirals.  It  is  beautiful, 
of  course,  by  night,  but  then  if  it  were  day  we  might  run 
inside  and  revel  in  Titians  and  Tintorettos.  The  fan- 
tastic columns  fade  and  flash  as  the  red  and  green  fires 
smoulder  or  flame,  and  the  gilded  Fortuna  on  the  dome 
of  the  adjoining  Dogana  catches  some  of  the  glitter 
and  generously  sends  it  on  to  the  Seminario  in  the  rear. 

Some  one  calls  my  name  from  among  the  oleanders  of 
the  Britannia  terrace,  just  opposite.  What  a  delight  to 
be  known  by  name  in  this  charmed  city !  I  look  up  at 
the  adjoining  hotel  and  there  are  the  windows  of  my 
room,  and  I  know  that  within  in  the  dark  my  clothing 
and  articles  of  travel  lie  about.  With  secret  wonder  I 
whisper  to  myself  that  I,  after  all  the  years  of  waiting 
and  hoping,  I  am  actually  a  part  of  Venice! 

One  might  think  there  could  not  possibly  be  any  more 
gondolas  in  all  the  city  outside  of  to-night's  tremendous 
gathering;  but  even  now  you  could  find  them  floating 
lazily  about  the  lagoons,  or  away  out  toward  the  Lido 
where  the  moist  winds  are  ruflBiing  the  water  and  the 
distant  Bride  of  the  Sea  seems  only  some  sort  of  bright 
exhalation.  Theirs  is  a  languorous  and  listless  drifting 
and  their  dim  lamps  waver  slowly  like  glowworms. 
Little  need  there  for  the  musical  wails  of  "Ah,  Premi!" 
"Ah,  Stall!"  Little  of  such  complaint  as  Byron  made 
that  gondoliers  are  songless,  for  one  could  not  ask  for 
more  plaintive  and  soothing  melody  than  the  low,  pas- 


VENICE  319 

sionate  crooning  of  the  barefooted  boy  at  the  oar.  And, 
perhaps,  in  the  musky  dark  of  silent  canals  more 
gondolas  than  one  are  even  now  stealing  lightly  and 
with  love's  devious  purposes  under  the  fretted  balconies 
of  the  star-eyed  daughters  of  Venice,  while  Beppo 
muffles  his  oar  to  the  warning  of  Tom  Moore:  — 

"Row  gently  here,  my  gondolier; 
So  softly  wake  the  tide, 
That  not  an  ear  on  earth  may  hear 
Save  hers  to  whom  we  glide!" 

It  seems  weeks  since,  in  the  cool  of  this  very  morning, 
out  at  the  little  island  of  Burano,  I  lunched  under  shady 
locusts  in  the  quiet  garden  of  "The  Crowned  Lion.'*  It 
was  a  pleasant  stop  on  the  way  to  deserted  old  Torcello 
—  Torcello  that  mothered  Venice,  but  now  sleeps,  a 
clutter  of  grass-grown  ruins,  in  the  appalling  stillness 
of  her  weedy  canals  and  thickets  of  blackberry  hedges. 
Within  a  cable  length  of  where  our  gondola  is  now 
resting  a  black,  tarry  fishing-bark  tugs  at  anchor.  If  it 
were  day  and  her  sails  were  set,  one  could  not  help  being 
delighted  over  the  oranges  and  reds  and  blues  of  her 
patched  and  weathered  canvas,  the  curve  of  the  elabor- 
ately painted  bow,  and  the  spirited  air  of  the  curious 
figurehead.  Unchanged  survivors  of  the  fading  Past  are 
these  sturdy  old  bragozzi  of  Chioggia,  and  one  could 
not  ask  for  a  braver  show  than  they  present  when  they 
hoist  their  painted  sails  to  dry  in  one  long  line  from  the 
Public  Gardens  to  the  Doge's  Palace. 


320     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

It  was  at  Chioggia  that  we  loitered,  a  few  days  back, 
and  fed  on  picturesqueness  to  satiety.  We  have  but 
to  close  our  eyes  —  and  there  are  the  grizzled  old  fel- 
lows in  red  berrettas,  trousers  rolled  to  their  wiry  brown 
knees  and  great  hoops  of  yellow  gold  in  their  ears. 
When  the  midday  sun  was  hottest  we  found  them  sit- 
ting in  the  shade  of  their  fishing-boats'  sails,  mending 
their  nets  with  wooden  bodkins  and  brown  twine.  In 
the  old  days,  when  the  hand  of  Venice  was  all-powerful 
in  this  part  of  the  world,  the  Chioggians  were  the  gay- 
est and  most  picturesque  people  of  these  islands.  Art- 
ists still  consider  them  the  purest  types  of  Venetians, 
but  they  are  a  sad  and  melancholy  lot  now,  as  if  bur- 
dened with  the  heritage  of  glorious  memories.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  the  old  men  were  the  happiest  living  things 
in  Chioggia;  then,  perhaps,  came  the  boys,  then  the  girls, 
and  last  of  all  the  women  —  and  the  older  the  women 
the  gloomier.  The  flirt  of  a  sober  mantilla  is  the  nearest 
they  ever  come  nowadays  to  gayety. 

We  shall  never  forget,  nor  ever  want  to,  that  wonder- 
ful sail  back  from  Chioggia  to  Venice.  Listening  to  the 
music  on  the  Canal  to-night  the  memory  of  it  seems 
compact  of  dreams,  or  as  the  florid  cloister-fancy  of  a 
Middle-Ages  monk  that  we  had  read  in  some  illum- 
inated old  volume  bound  in  vellum  and  clasped  with 
gold.  There  was  all  the  vitalizing  pageantry  of  sunset 
about  us,  all  the  immensity  of  sky  and  sea,  and  many  a 
bright  little  island  rising  out  of  the  rippling  lagoon  this 


VENICE  321 

side  the  marshy  wastes.  The  yellow  strips  of  Pellestrina 
and  Malamocco  topped  the  waves  in  two  long  lines,  like 
half -submerged  reefs  of  gold.  Above  was  a  vast  dome 
of  turquoise  glinted  with  pinks  and  grays,  and  with  here 
and  there  a  little  heap  of  snowy  clouds.  Every  phase  of 
the  wonderful  sky  was  reproduced  in  the  water.  The 
sun  reflected  a  second  sun  of  no  less  ruddy  fire  which 
burned  across  the  sea  in  a  broad  highway  of  shaking 
light  that  rolled  to  our  very  feet.  The  piled  and  fleecy 
clouds  were  steeped  in  gold,  and  bands  of  purple  mists 
across  Shelley's  Euganean  Hills  were  pierced  by  it 
through  and  through.  Venice,  a  mirage  of  the  azure 
sea,  rose  slowly  as  we  drew  nearer,  a  witchery  of  towers, 
campaniles,  palaces,  painted  sails,  and  drifting  gon- 
dolas. As  the  dimming  beauty  faded  with  the  brief 
Eastern  twilight  and  we  were  gazing  in  awe  on  the  en- 
chanting panorama,  there  suddenly  loomed  a  fresh  and 
added  glory,  for  just  above  the  topmost  pinnacle  of 
stately  San  Giorgio  floated  a  young  summer  moon ! 

Beauty  has  here  an  abiding-place.  Venice  is  doubt- 
less a  fairer  vision  now,  with  its  myriad  lights,  than  when 
the  only  illumination  was  from  flickering  tapers  before 
the  corner  shrines  of  the  Virgin.  More  comfortable  it 
surely  is  than  when  St.  Roche  himself  was  baffled  by 
more  than  seventy  plagues.  The  jaunty  boatman  and 
his  peerless  gondola  still  charm  us,  and  dustless  and 
noiseless  the  city  continues  musical  with  the  cheery 
hum  of  voices  and  the  soft  shuffle  of  feet.   In  the  cool 


322    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

twilight  of  the  churches  marvels  of  sculpture  and  im- 
mortal canvases  still  inspire  and  enthrall.  Time  has 
added  new  charms  to  the  marbles  of  bell  tower,  church, 
and  palace,  and  nature  still  employs  a  witchery  scarce 
equaled  elsewhere  in  decking  the  Sea  City  with  flowers. 
From  the  water-lilies  of  the  Brenta,  the  flaming  begonia 
trumpets  of  the  Giudecca,  the  pale  sea-lavender  of  the 
Dead  Lagoon,  the  rose-pergolas  and  oleander-cloisters 
of  San  Lazzaro,  the  primroses  and  sea-holly  of  the  Lido 
wooded  with  odorous  acacias  and  white-flowered  catal- 
pas,  and  carpeted  with  crimson  poppies  and  the  snowy 
Star  of  Bethlehem,  away  out  to  the  sand  dunes  and  lush 
grasses  of  Triporti,  there  continually  rises  an  inexhaust- 
ible incense  of  fragrance  and  beauty. 

The  serenade  is  nearly  ended.  Anticipating  the  com- 
ing rush  at  the  San  Marco  Piazza,  a  word  to  Paolo 
starts  us  laboriously  toward  the  outskirts  of  the  flotilla. 
From  the  Royal  Gardens  to  the  molo  is  a  matter  of  only 
a  dozen  plunges  or  so  of  the  stout  oar,  spurred  by  an 
offer  of  extra  lire  for  extra  speed.  Off  flies  our  gondola, 
frowning  as  superbly  as  ever  did  swan  in  the  eye  of 
Keats.  We  dart  alongside  the  wet  quay  beyond  the 
Bridge  of  Sighs  and  one  of  those  superannuated  old 
gondoliers  called  rampini  earns  a  pourboire  by  steadying 
the  prow  as  we  jump  ashore  at  the  base  of  the  column  of 
San  Marco's  winged  lion.  St.  Theodore  looks  down  plac- 
idly from  the  vantage-point  above  his  crocodile  as  we 
pass   between   these   storied   pillars  —  "fra   Marco   e 


VENICE  323 

Todaro,"  as  the  Venetians  say  when  they  mean  "be- 
tween pillar  and  post."  The  piazzetta  is  already 
crowded  and  our  hope  of  a  table  at  Florian's  is  dwindling. 
Never  did  the  stately  Sansovino  Library  or  the  airy 
colonnades  and  warm  Moorish  marbles  of  the  Palace 
of  the  Doges  look  finer,  but  past  them  we  speed  with  no 
time  for  the  scantiest  of  glances  at  the  famous  quatre- 
foils  and  the  thirty-six  pillars  with  the  renowned  cap- 
itals, and  in  we  hurry  to  the  broad  and  glorious  piazza 
and  its  flooding  of  light  and  life.  Florian's  is  in  a  state 
of  siege.  Every  table  seems  taken  and  hungry  people  by 
hundreds  are  clamoring  for  places.  The  Quadri,  across 
the  square,  would  probably  have  had  to  content  us  had 
not  the  efiicacy  of  frequent  past  tips  saved  the  day,  and 
my  nightly  waiter  welcomes  us  with  his  dry  and  mirth- 
less smile  and  slips  us  into  a  snug  harbor  under  the  very 
guns  of  the  enemy.  My  companions  are  officers  of  the 
American  squadron  now  lying  at  Triest  and  they  pass 
their  professional  opinion  that  the  strategy  was  capital. 
But  though  officers,  they  are  young  officers,  and  Venice 
has  captured  them  hand  and  foot.  Scarcely  have  we 
completed  our  supper-order  when  the  flowing  strains  of 
the  Coronation  March  from  *'The  Prophet"  roll  in  from 
the  molo  in  the  barca's  good  night,  and,  as  if  it  were 
riding  in  on  that  splendid  musical  tide,  the  noisy,  jub- 
ilant host  of  the  festa  comes  pouring  upon  us. 

And  what  a  fascinating  spectacle  does  this  grand, 
unrivaled  old  square  then  present!   Were  Byron  here 


324    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

to-night  he  would  still  have  to  call  it  "the  pleasant 
place  of  all  festivity."  No  chance  now  to  study  the  de- 
signs in  this  vast  flooring  of  marble  or  to  coax  a  half- 
persuaded  pigeon  on  to  your  shoulder.  In  every  part  of 
its  two  hundred  yards  of  arcaded  length,  set  with  storied 
architecture  so  inspiring  by  beauty  and  association  that 
it  moved  even  the  self-contained  Mr.  Howells  to  ex- 
claim, "It  makes  you  glad  to  be  living  in  this  world," 
and  under  the  blaze  of  its  rimming  of  clustered  lights 
and  shops  and  thronged  cafes,  there  storms  and  chatters 
a  vigorous,  cheery,  light-hearted  multitude  fresh  from 
the  stimulus  of  the  ghttering  water  pageant.  It  comes 
in  through  the  piazzetta  with  such  a  rush  that  one  looks 
for  the  band  and  band-stand,  too,  to  be  swept  the  full 
length  of  the  square  and  out  under  the  arches  of  the 
Royal  Palace.  Such  laughing  and  uproar !  Such  a  sirocco 
of  gestures  and  hailstorm  of  crackling  exclamations! 
This  human  tidal  wave  of  the  Adriatic  pours  down  the 
middle,  seethes  along  the  edges,  and  swirls  and  eddies 
in  the  remotest  corners.  One  sees  in  it  happy,  voluntary- 
exiles  from  almost  every  part  of  the  world,  but  to-night 
the  festa-\oYing  Venetians  predominate.  Every  local 
type  is  here;  from  the  languid  patrician,  come  in  from 
her  country  estate  and  now  sipping  anise-water  here  at 
Florian's,  and  the'vapid  and  scented  fashionable  youths 
with  carnations  in  their  buttonholes,  to  the  flashing, 
black-eyed  shop-girls  with  red  roses  in  their  crisp  black 
hair  and  graceful  mantilla  shawls  dropping  back  from 


VENICE  325 

their  tossing  heads,  and  the  vigorous,  smiling  artisans, 
easy  and  jaunty  of  gait,  with  soft  hats  pushed  back  at 
every  rakish  angle  on  their  curly  heads.  How  happy  and 
transported  Maria  is  to-night,  in  her  new  black  skirt 
and  crimson  bodice,  and  how  the  sultry  red  smoulders 
through  the  olive  of  her  cheeks  as  her  little  hands  whirl 
in  a  tempest  of  gestures  and  the  lightnings  of  excite- 
ment play  in  her  midnight  eyes !  And  no  less  carried  away 
is  Giovanni,  beside  her,  —  proud  as  CoUeoni  on  the 
big  bronze  horse,  —  though  he  lets  her  do  most  of  the 
talking  and  contents  himself  with  approving  in  quick, 
expressive  shrugs.  All  classes  of  society  are  with  us  — 
"rich  man,  poor  man,  beggarman,  thief";  and  old  Shy- 
lock  himself ,  who  was  most  of  these, "dreaming of  money- 
bags." Scraps  of  gay,  slurring  song  are  continually 
bubbling  over  and  flashes  of  wit  and  snappy  repartees  go 
flying  to  and  fro.  Flower-girls  thread  the  press  and  in- 
sist upon  pinning  boutonnieres  on  the  men,  and  street 
merchants  move  about  offering  everything  from  curios 
to  caramel-on-a-stick.  A  crowd  gathers  about  a  blind 
old  troubadour  thrumming  a  dirty  guitar  and  struggling 
to  force  his  rusty  voice  along  the  melodious  course  of 
some  popular  villottey  and  presently  he  will  be  led  among 
the  tables  before  the  cafes  and  centesimi  and  silver  lire 
will  jingle  into  his  ragged  hat. 

It  is  little  enough  to  say  that  no  scene  ever  had  a  more 
romantic  setting.  The  quaint  old  Venetian  quatrain 
does  this  famed  spot  scant  justice:  — 


326    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

"In  St.  Mark's  Place  three  standards  you  descry, 
And  chargers  four  that  seem  about  to  fly; 
There  is  a  timepiece  which  appears  a  tower, 
And  there  are  twelve  black  men  who  strike  the  hour." 

In  the  moonlight  the  sculptured  and  arcaded  old 
buildings  glow  like  mellow  ivory  around  three  sides  of 
it,  and  it  is  warmed  and  vitalized  by  bustling  cafes  and 
brilliant  shop  windows  set  with  tempting  snares  of  art- 
ful jewelry  and  cunningly  wrought  glass.  Strong  and 
proud  the  great  Campanile  towers  upward  into  the 
clear  night,  away  above  the  tops  of  the  three  tall  flag- 
staffs.  The  sumptuous  Cathedral,  in  its  wealth  of  glow- 
ing color  and  lavish  adornment,  makes  one  think  of  a 
vast  heap  of  glittering  treasure  piled  up  by  returning 
Venetian  pirates  in  answer  to  the  accustomed  question, 
"What  have  you  brought  back  for  Marco.^^"  One  can 
scarcely  take  his  eyes  off  its  lofty,  yawning  portals,  its 
gates  of  bronze,  its  forest  of  columns,  its  sweeping  arches 
glowing  in  every  color  of  brilliant  mosaics,  its  profusion 
of  creamy  sculptures,  its  canopied  saints  and  statued 
pinnacles  and  its  great  Byzantine  domes  billowing  into 
the  purple  sky.  On  the  ancient  clock  tower  of  the  Mer- 
ceria  the  fierce  winged  lion  of  St.  Mark's  holds  a  resol- 
ute paw  on  the  open  Gospels,  and  the  bronze  bellringers 
swing  twelve  ponderous  blows  and  hang  up  the  hour  of 
midnight  on  a  dial  of  blue  and  gold.  As  they  pause  at 
the  completion  of  their  labors  and  look  down  on  the  sea 
of  faces  turned  toward  them  from  the  Piazza  they  seem 


VENICE  327 

so  nearly  galvanized  into  life  that  it  would  scarcely  sur- 
prise one  to  hear  them  shout,  "What  news  of  the  argos- 
ies of  Antonio?'* 

With  the  sparkling  beauty  of  Venice  so  irresistible  it 
is  a  terrible  temptation  to  my  companions  to  hurry 
straight  back  to  Triest  and  come  over  with  their  battle- 
ship and,  like  dashing  naval  Lochinvars,  force  an  es- 
pousal of  this  incomparable  Bride  of  the  Sea.  Vain 
thought!  It  is  Venice  herself  who  has  always  done  the 
espousing;  fully  to  possess  her  it  must  be  on  her  own 
conditions  of  complete  surrender. 

How  inevitable  it  seems  at  night  that  you  must  take 
the  step;  must  cry  out,  once  and  for  all,  to  fellow  voy- 
agers on  the  Dead  Lagoons  of  Life:  **Ho,  brothers!  No 
more  of  the  drab  and  wretched  wastes  for  me !  I  am  for 
beauty  and  romance  —  *  in  Venice,  all  golden,  to  dream ! ' 
I  shall  dwell  in  this  enchanted  realm  of  dolce  far  niente 
and  float  with  my  gondola  into  the  final  Sunset.  Com- 
panions on  Life's  waters, '  Ah,  Stall ' ! " 


PARIS 

MIDNIGHT    TO    1    A.M. 


mM-rif: 


PARIS 

MIDNIGHT   TO    1    A.M. 

Like  a  practiced  coquette,  Paris,  the  world's  enchant- 
eresse,  reserves  for  the  supreme  moments  of  midnight 
her  rarest  resources  of  gayety  and  charm.  Her  last 
laughs  are  her  best.  And  decidedly,  she  is  dangerous 
when  laughing.  Beyond  question,  her  glowing  eyes  at 
midnight  are  wonderfully  sweet  and  beguiling;  and  hers 
is  the  skill  to  touch  the  bright  hours  with  the  most  de- 
lectable couleur  de  rose.  There  is  satisfaction  for  each 
desire.  "Would  monsieur  sup.?"  The  most  amazing 
cuisine  in  the  world  awaits  your  pleasure.  "Would  mon- 
sieur stroll  ?"  The  sparkling  lights  and  rustling  trees 
of  the  fairest  of  boulevards  fairly  drag  you  their  way. 
"Would  he  drive?"  You  raise  your  hand;  a  fiacre  dashes 
up;  and  soon  the  Bois  and  the  Champs-Elysees,  cool, 
scented,  dewy,  receive  you  gladly  to  their  enchanting 
retreats.  "Would  he  join  a  revel  —  just  a  little  one.''" 
Cabarets,  cafSs-chantants,  hols  publics  were  designed  for 
no  other  purpose.  "Would  he  look  on  at  life.''"  ''Gar- 
Qon  vitel  Une  demi-tasse  —  une;  sur  la  terrasse!^'  —  and 
heart  could  not  ask  for  a  madder,  merrier,  more  absorb- 
ing spectacle  than  that  which  will  whirl  and  surge  by  the 


332     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

very  edge  of  your  little  round  table.  *'Eh?  Monsieur 
has  a  fancy  for  nature  and  solitude?  Mon  Dieul  C'est 
un  original,  celui-la!  Mais'^  —  and  you  will  find  no- 
where gardens  lovelier  than  those  of  the  Tuileries,  ele- 
gant with  statues  and  carpeted  with  flowers.  Thus  at 
every  point  the  charmer  wins.  What  is  left  but  sur- 
render.? She  seems  the  very  Queen  of  Heart's  Desire. 

Of  course,  the  night  side  of  Paris  is  her  most  trivial 
side.  But  then  visitors  have  always  refused  to  take  her 
seriously  at  any  time.  No  matter  how  many  wonderful 
achievements  have  been  crying  out  to  them  all  day  that 
this  is  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  and  advanced  com- 
munities to  be  found  anywhere  on  the  face  of  the  earth, 
still  they  stubbornly  cling  to  the  conviction  that  all  is 
frivolity  here  and  that  night  is  Paris's  supreme  period 
and  pleasure  seeking  her  most  conspicuous  and  charac- 
teristic role.  Accustomed  to  the  droll  ideas  of  foreigners, 
and  bothering  little  about  them  except  to  find  occasional 
amusement,  Paris  shrugs  her  shoulders  in  indifference 
and  turns  on  more  lights.  Brilliant,  charming,  and  in- 
genious she  creates  what  she  prefers  —  an  atmosphere 
of  gayety  and  beauty.  And  the  visiting  world  purrs 
about  her  in  joy  of  a  fascination  it  cannot  find  elsewhere 
and  salves  its  own  patriotism  with  the  conclusion  that 
this  is  her  principal  raison  d'etre. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Parisians  are  masters  of  the 
art  of  living.  As  their  kitchen  is  the  best,  so  is  their 
drawing-room  and  study.   All  the  affairs  of  every  day 


PARIS  333 

are  handled  with  ease  and  grace,  with  imagination  and  a 
kind  of  poetic  skill  that  adorns  even  the  ugly  and  com- 
monplace and  invests  them  with  attractiveness  and 
charm.  The  cheery  light-heartedness  that  is  a  funda- 
mental trait  of  Parisians  converts  the  life  of  their  streets 
and  parks  into  scenes  delightful  either  to  contemplate 
or  share.  Indeed,  they  often  seem  to  be  only  grown-up 
children,  so  gracefully  have  they  retained  the  fresh  and 
stimulating  enthusiasm  of  youth  — so  rueful  and  pouting 
over  a  rainy  day;  so  exuberant  over  a  bright  one.  And 
the  best  of  it  is  that  there  is  an  infection  to  their  high 
spirits  that  passes  into  the  observer  and  clears  his  per- 
ception of  the  folly  of  worry  and  depression,  and  shows 
him  the  value  and  availableness  of  optimism  and  good 
cheer.  Such  is  the  glorious  influence  of  a  people  whose 
attitude  toward  life  is  essentially  one  of  hope  and  zest. 
No  one  is  going  to  deny  that  the  Parisian  is  vain. 
Indeed,  his  attitude  toward  the  rest  of  the  earth,  while 
patient  and  polite,  is  at  bottom  patronizing  and  even  a 
little  supercilious.  And  sometimes,  it  must  be  confessed, 
this  gets  on  the  visitor's  nerves.  One  cannot  give  out 
admiration  forever  and  rest  content  with  getting  none 
back.  It  is  easy  to  understand  the  mood  of  bitter  deri- 
sion into  which  even  so  enthusiastic  an  admirer  as 
Edmondo  de  Amicis  fell  when  he  wrathfully  wrote: 
"Three  hundred  *  citizens'  hang  over  the  side  of  a  bridge 
to  see  a  dog  washed;  if  a  drum  passes,  a  crowd  collects; 
and  a  thousand  people,  in  one  railway  station,  make  a 


334    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

tremendous  uproar  by  clapping  their  hands,  shouting, 
and  laughing  because  one  of  the  guards  of  the  train  has 
lost  his  hat!"  Yet  De  Amicis  came  shortly  to  see  that 
this  is  only  the  Parisian  temperament,  which  he  ad- 
mired in  so  many  other  of  its  manifestations,  and  that 
under  it  lie  solid  qualities  of  the  highest  and  rarest 
order.  So  he  forgave  Paris,  as  everyone  does,  and  took 
her  again  to  his  heart  —  albeit,  I  mistrust,  with  reserva- 
tion and  a  lingering  grain  of  suspicion  and  perhaps 
something  of  the  foreign  conviction  that  she  is  not 
always  to  be  taken  quite  seriously. 

To  the  vast  majority  of  visitors  Paris  by  night  means 
the  boulevards.  The  beauty  of  these  famed  thorough- 
fares, the  cosmopolitan  and  fascinating  sea  of  humanity 
that  flows  through  them,  the  means  of  amusement  that 
abound,  and  all  the  many  little  refinements  of  comfort 
and  elegance  to  be  seen  on  every  hand  place  them  in  a 
class  by  themselves  among  the  city  streets  of  the  world. 
In  the  matter  of  virility  the  life  of  the  boulevards  is 
amazing.  Every  one  seems  to  be  at  his  keenest  when  he 
walks  there.  Anticipation  is  fairly  skipping  on  tiptoe. 
The  old  boulevardier,  the  traditional  flaneur,  has  not 
been  disappointed  of  his  evening's  diverting  on-look 
these  forty  years  or  more,  and  he  can,  therefore,  clothed 
and  gloved  and  caned  a  la  modey  proceed  with  his 
stroll  in  unhasting  dignity,  confident  that  the  usual 
amusing  spectacle  will  unfold  itself  in  good  time.  But 
the  new  arrivals  and  the  visitors  of  a  few  weeks  show  in 


Q 
> 

O 
« 

H 

o 


PARIS  335 

their  eager  faces  that  nothing  is  going  to  escape  them 
and  that  a  thorough  debauch  of  pleasure  is  the  least  they 
propose  to  make  out  of  all  the  bewildering  light  and  life 
about  them.  From  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  to  the  Place 
de  la  Republique  a  laughing,  brilliant,  light-hearted 
multitude  pours  along  all  night  with  infinite  bustle  and 
chatter.  Between  twelve  and  one  o'clock  it  is  at  its 
gayest.  The  theatres  and  cafes-concerts  have  emptied 
their  audiences  into  the  stream,  which  is  swollen  to  the 
very  curb,  and  the  driveways  are  whirling  with  an  enor- 
mous outpouring  of  busses,  motors,  and  cabs.  The  size 
of  the  loads  the  hired  victorias  and  fiacres  will  accom- 
modate is  determined  solely  by  the  inclination  and  inter- 
est of  the  impertinent  fat  cocker  in  the  varnished  plug 
hat;  and  it  is  nothing  to  see  a  conveyance,  that  ordinarily 
carries  but  two  people,  trundling  merrily  along  behind  a 
sprung-kneed  nag,  with  a  man  and  several  girls  piled  in- 
side and  all  waving  hands  to  the  crowd  with  the  vastest 
camaraderie  imaginable.  This  is  of  a  piece  with  the  uni- 
versal high  spirits  and  good  humor  that  prevail  along 
the  boulevards.  It  is  all  fun  and  frolic,  and  everybody  is 
in  it.  The  rows  of  chairs  and  tables  on  the  sidewalks 
before  the  cafes  really  make  the  spectators  a  part  of  the 
show;  and  the  groups  before  the  artistic  little  newspaper 
kiosks  and  the  comfortable  sitters  on  the  green  benches 
along  the  curb  are,  in  spite  of  themselves,  part  and  par- 
cel of  the  big  family,  with  something  of  the  intimacy 
and  allied  interest  of  a  village  street  at  fair-time.   And 


336    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

it  always  seems  fair-time  in  Paris  by  night.  The  pro- 
fusion of  lights  that  have  won  it  the  title  of  "La  Ville 
Lumiere"  gives  it  an  appearance  of  being  perpetually 
en  }ete,  and  the  ebullient  crowds  complete  the  illusion. 
But  the  Grand  Boulevards  have  no  monopoly  of  the 
night  attractiveness  of  the  city.  All  over  town  stretch 
broad,  clean  streets  with  shade  trees  and  double  lines  of 
lights  and  rows  of  stone  and  stucco  houses.  In  the  main 
these  houses  resemble  each  other  rather  closely;  slate- 
colored,  Mansard-roofed,  and  with  shallow  iron  bal- 
conies running  full  length  of  the  second,  fourth,  and 
fifth  stories.  By  night  they  fairly  exhale  an  atmosphere 
of  tranquillity  and  peace.  There  are,  besides,  hundreds 
of  beautiful  roomy  squares,  flooded  with  light  and  set 
with  comfortable  benches  that  are  seldom  without  con- 
tented occupants.  Such  a  notable  one  as  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde  is  without  its  equal  in  any  city.  It  costs  the 
three  and  a  quarter  millions  of  people  who  live  in  and 
about  Paris  more  than  $70,000,000  a  year  to  maintain 
their  city's  reputation  for  beauty;  and  not  a  sou  of  it  is 
begrudged.  For  Paris  is  the  whole  world  to  most  of 
them,  and  many  a  Parisian  politician  had  rather  be 
Prefect  of  the  Seine  and  rule  this  town  than  president  of 
the  whole  Republic.  And  with  what  reason!  "It  is  a 
world-city,"  said  Goethe,  "where  the  crossing  of  every 
bridge  or  every  square  recalls  a  great  past,  and  where 
at  every  street  corner  a  piece  of  history  has  been  un- 
folded." 


PARIS  337 

Whoever  turns  from  the  boulevards  for  a  space  will 
learn  of  other  kinds  of  life  that  are  in  full  cry  at  mid- 
night. What  of  the  studio  revelries  of  the  Quartier 
Latin?  There  abound  jollity  and  earnestness  and  strong 
friendships  with  few  of  the  gilded  accessories  of  the  Rive 
Droite.  The  brightest  of  these  scenes  are  often  the  most 
meagre  in  setting.  A  group  of  jovial,  smoking,  singing 
companions  —  and  about  them  an  easel  and  sketching- 
board,  a  dingy  divan,  a  few  battered  chairs,  a  stove  in 
the  corner  with  the  remains  of  the  last  meal,  a  huddle  of 
draperies  and  hangings,  fragments  of  casts  and  uncom- 
pleted sketches  on  the  walls,  and  a  corner  table  piled 
with  a  dusty  litter  of  squeezed-out  paint-tubes,  broken 
brushes,  magazine  illustrations,  a  dog-eared  book  or 
two,  and  a  generous  strewing  of  cigarette  butts.  The 
cleanest  things  in  sight  are  a  freshly  scraped  palette  and 
a  sheaf  of  brushes  stuck  in  a  half -filled  jar  of  water. 
With  so  much  of  equipment  your  merry,  care-free  artist 
squeezes  the  orange  of  life  to  its  smallest  drop,  and  cares 
not  a  sou  how  the  whole  world  wags,  provided  all  is  well 
between  the  Place  de  I'Observatoire  and  the  Seine. 

Then,  again,  were  you  to  pass  some  pleasant  house  on 
a  quiet  avenue  where  an  evening's  party  is  ending,  you 
could  not  help  but  linger  under  the  windows  in  delight 
to  hear  some  tender  song  of  Massenet's,  some  soothing 
berceuse  of  Ropartz's,  a  haunting  plaint  of  Saint-Saens 
or  a  vitalizing  torrent  of  Chaminade's. 

And  perhaps  where  you  might  most  expect  just  such 


338    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

a  scene  as  this,  behind  the  closely-drawn  window  drap- 
eries of  some  handsome  apartment,  there  is  gathered 
around  a  broad  green  table  a  group  of  flushed,  excited 
men  to  whom  a  hard-eyed  croupier  is  singing  the  abom- 
inable siren  song  of  *'Faites  vos  jeux,"  "Les  jeux  sont 
faits,"  "Rienne  va  plus."  It  seems  quiet  and  peaceful 
enough.  You  could  scarcely  believe  that  there  hangs 
above  it  the  shadow  of  the  little  gray  Morgue  down 
behind  Notre-Dame! 

Before  returning  to  the  giddy  boulevards  for  a  final 
petit-verre  and  an  exchange  of  pleasantries  with  cafe 
acquaintances,  one  likes  to  finish  a  cigar  in  an  aimless 
ramble  through  such  placid  scenes  as  these.  Not  only 
may  he  so  indulge  the  pleasing  diversion  of  speculating 
over  the  kinds  of  home  life  that  go  on  within  these 
houses,  but  incidentally  he  escapes  the  tumult  of  the 
maelstrom  for  a  few  calm  moments,  and  eventually 
sees  for  himself  what  a  pity  it  is  that  so  many  night 
fascinations  should  abound  in  Paris  and  be  enjoyed  by 
so  few.  He  may  like  to  draw  moral  conclusions  from 
the  peace-loving  pigeons  nesting  in  the  war-glorifying 
reliefs  of  the  gigantic  and  towering  Arc  de  Triomphe,  or 
take  satisfied  note  of  the  monuments  of  the  victories  of 
peace  that  dot  the  broad  avenues  that  radiate  from  it. 
One  such  monument  is  always  under  the  eyes  of  the 
boulevardiers  in  the  form  of  that  most  glorious  of  all 
temples  to  music,  the  Paris  Opera  House.  It  is  espe- 
cially impressive  by  night,  with  the  shadows  blending 


PARIS  339 

columns  and  statues  in  bewildering  beauty,  and  high- 
lights from  the  street  lamps  glinting  on  sculptured  bal- 
ustrades and  cornices,  chalking  the  edges  of  half -hidden 
arches  and  penciling  the  delicate  detail  of  medallions 
and  reliefs.  Nor,  it  must  be  allowed,  are  devotees  often 
wanting  for  that  fair  Greek  temple  of  La  Madeleine  — 
so  chaste  and  of  such  imposing  dignity,  rimmed  with 
giant  columns  and  embowered  in  verdure. 

After  like  fashion  does  night  enhance  the  beauty 
of  the  great,  rambling  Louvre  —  though  this  may  only 
be  Diana's  way  of  paying  tribute  to  the  Arts  and  of 
venerating  the  sacred  shrine  of  a  sister  divinity,  that 
serenest  and  sublimest  of  goddesses,  the  Venus  de 
Milo.  There  is  certainly  something  of  almost  ethereal 
comeliness  by  night  to  those  long  vistas  of  columns  and 
arcades,  to  the  shadowy  sculptures  of  the  pavilions,  the 
lines  of  graceful  caryatids  and  the  blustering  triumphal 
groups  of  the  pediments.  One  might  fancy  the  Louvre 
wearing  a  look  of  grave  disapproval  over  the  hubbub 
that  drifts  in  from  the  boulevards  were  he  not  aware 
how  carefully  it  treasures  so  many  pictorial  skeletons 
in  its  own  closets.  Boucher  and  Watteau  are  on  record 
with  infinitely  worse  scenes  than  these.  But  now  it  has 
the  appearance  of  some  palace  capitol  of  Shadowland; 
and  before  it  in  perfect  sympathy  lies  its  beautiful 
dream-kingdom,  the  hushed  and  fragrant  gardens  of  the 
Tuileries,  —  fair  as  the  golden  Hesperides,  —  fresh 
with  fountains,  silvered  in  patches  with  little  shining 


340    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

lakes,  marquetried  in  flowers,  and  peopled  with 
shadowy  forms  of  pallid  marble. 

From  a  Seine  bridge  one  notes  the  wizard  liberties 
the  reckless  moon  takes  with  the  colonnaded  dome  of 
the  sombre  Pantheon.  And,  more  astonishing  still,  the 
magic  tricks  it  plays  with  the  adorned  and  enormous 
bulk  of  Notre  Dame — now  veiling,  now  revealing  mas- 
sive buttress  and  delicate  rose-window,  some  recessed 
arch  tucked  full  of  sculptured  saints  all  snugly  foot  to 
head,  or  a  goblin  band  of  hideous  gargoyles  that  leer 
ghoulishly  down  from  out  the  purple  haze  of  the  towers. 
One  could  well  wish,  however,  for  a  closer  view  of  that 
exquisite  survivor  of  the  Valois  kings,  the  peerless  Tour 
Saint- Jacques,  at  the  first  sight  of  which  the  most  in- 
different exclaim  with  delight  over  so  rare  a  vision  of 
grace  and  lacelike  beauty,  over  long  slender  windows 
delicately  foliated,  over  traceries  of  stone  like  petrified 
festoons,  and  an  ensemble  so  suggestive  of  some  dainty 
ivory-carving  a  million  times  enlarged.  With  a  glimpse 
of  the  round  pointed  towers  of  the  dread  Conciergerie 
comes  something  of  the  horror  of  the  days  of  the  Terror, 
and  one  fancies  ghastly  forms  beckoning  him  at  the  win- 
dows with  white,  frightened  faces  and  hanging  hair  and 
eyes  with  hideous  rings,  and  delicate  praying  hands  up- 
held to  passers-by,  and  iron  bars  clutched  by  the  little 
white  fingers  of  Marie  Antoinette  and  her  court. 

From  such  a  gruesome  fancy  it  is  a  relief  to  turn  and 
look  down  on  the  dark  rippling  Seine  and  watch  the 


PARIS  341 

wavy  ribbons  of  light  swim  quiveringly  out  from  the 
bridge  lamps.  And  there  in  the  cool  of  their  stone 
wharves,  still  panting  and  perspiring  from  the  violent  ex- 
ertions of  the  earlier  evening,  lie  the  fat  little  open-deck 
steamers  that  haul  the  lovers  home.  For  many  a  happy 
pair  this  day  has  been  dining  deliciously  a  deux  under 
the  gay  terrace  awnings  of  one  or  another  of  the  roman- 
tic, flower-embowered  inns  that  overlook  the  river 
all  the  way  from  Charenton  to  gray  old  Argenteuil, 
where  Heloise  in  her  nunnery  fought  her  losing  fight 
against  love  and  the  memory  of  Abelard.  Some  of 
these  steamers  appear  alarmingly  apoplectic,  so  that 
one  wonders  how  they  have  managed  to  wheeze  safely 
under  all  those  low  arches  with  the  garlanded  "N's'* 
and  past  so  many  formidable  buttresses  all  sculptured 
cap-a-pie. 

If  now  you  turn  and  look  upward  and  about  you,  lo! 
the  heaped  and  cluttered  roofs  of  Paris  —  the  most 
fantastic  and  romantic  of  spectacles!  It  is  singular, 
almost  startling,  to  see  how  they  stare  down  as  though 
to  study  you,  and  with  apparently  as  much  curious  in- 
tentness  and  dark  suspicion  as  you  do  them.  There 
must  be  whole  volumes  of  stories  to  each  of  them.  Out 
of  the  ponderous  Mansard  roofs  impudent,  leering  little 
dormer  windows  wink  down  and  squint  up,  each  with 
his  rakish  peaked  roof  like  a  jockey  cap  over  one  ear. 
And  up  above  even  them  are  whole  groves  of  blackened 
chimney-stacks  leaning  all  askew,  like  barricades  for 


342    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

sansculottes.  You  look  expectantly  ,to  see  miserable 
white  Pierrot  come  forth,  guitar  in  hand,  and  sing  sadly 
of  Colombine  to  the  pallid  moon. 

Suddenly,  to  the  right,  the  lift  of  a  cloud  unveils  the 
bronze  dome  of  the  solemn  Hotel  des  Invalides,  and 
your  heart  beats  high  with  thoughts  of  the  marvelous 
man  who  lies  under  it  among  his  tattered  battle-flags 
on  a  pavement  inscribed  with  his  victories.  It  is  a  so- 
bering reflection  that  now  in  the  darkness  and  stillness 
of  that  chamber  the  only  eyes  that  are  looking  down  on 
his  porphyry  sarcophagus  are  those  of  the  bronze  Christ 
that  hangs  on  the  cross  in  the  little  side  chapel  of  the 
tomb. 

"Tout-Paris,"  as  smart  society  calls  itself,  spends  the 
early  summer  at  Trouville.  All  the  most  exclusive  names 
of  the  two- volume  Bottin  are  then  inscribed  in  the  hotel 
registers  of  this  recherche  resort,  nor  are  their  owners  to 
be  looked  for  in  town  again  until  long  after  the  derbies 
have  reappeared  in  the  hatters'  windows.  But  while 
Fashion  is  flirting  on  the  beaches  and  betting  on  the 
little  wooden  horses  of  the  Trouville  Casino,  what  is 
left  at  home  after  "All  Paris"  has  gone  is  quite  suf- 
ficient to  keep  the  boulevards  lively.  What  walking- 
space  remains  is  eagerly  employed  by  the  tens  of  thou- 
sands of  visitors.  One  may  not,  therefore,  see  the 
fashionable  show  of  winter,  but  he  finds  an  acceptable 
substitute  in  the  vivacious  summer  throngs  with  their 
perpetual  atmosphere  of  Mardi  Gras. 


PARIS  343 

As  midnight  wanes  and  the  multitude  waxes,  it  is 
amusing  to  speculate  upon  the  scattered  sources  of  the 
innumerable  tiny  streams  that  come  gradually  trickling 
in.  The  outlying  attractions  hold  firmly  enough  up  to 
this  hour,  but  the  magnet  of  the  boulevards  is  strong- 
est in  the  end. 

Montmartre,  you  may  be  sure,  has  been  up  to  her  old 
tricks.  What  "La  Butte"  has  to  learn  about  promis- 
cuous entertaining  may  be  classed  among  the  negligible 
quantities.  Somewhere  in  that  honeycomb  of  moulinSy 
cabarets,  penny-shows,  spectacles,  revues,  tiny  thea- 
tres with  sensational  rococo  fagades  and  cafes  with  fan- 
tastic names  dedicated  to  the  riotous  and  the  risque, 
diversion  is  bound  to  be  forthcoming  for  any  amuse- 
ment hunter  blase  with  the  usual.  All  the  way  down 
from  the  quaint  little  shops  and  crooked,  cobble-stoned 
streets  of  the  rustic  upper  region  above  the  Moulin  de  la 
Galette  to  the  blazing  purlieus  of  the  Place  de  Clichy 
and  the  Place  Pigalle,  there  is  always  something  on 
hand  at  midnight  to  amaze  the  neophyte.  You  may  in- 
dulge or  not,  as  inclination  dictates,  but  you  are  pretty 
apt  to  be  astonished,  when  you  look  at  your  watch,  to 
see  how  long  you  have  lingered.  French  ingenuity  has 
lavished  itself  on  every  form  of  ''attraction"  from  vau- 
deville and  bals  publics  to  papier-mache  establishments 
devoted  to  parodies  of  Heaven  and  Hell.  The  Boulevard 
de  Clichy  is  the  heart  of  "La  Butte,"  but  the  life  it 
pumps  along  its  arteries  flows  principally  from  one  show 


344    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

to  another.  You  may  settle  down  on  a  bench  under  the 
trees,  if  you  Hke,  and  resolve  to  view  life  only  in  the 
open  in  defiance  of  all  the  devils  rampant  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, but  presently  a  flashing  electric  sign  shrieks 
out  an  overlooked  novelty  and  you  find  yourself  say- 
ing, "Oh,  well,  since  I  am  in  Paris,"  etc.,  etc.,  and  off 
you  go. 

The  excuse  of  being  in  Paris  covers  a  multitude  of 
sins.  To  do  as  the  Parisians  do  serves  purposes  rarely 
indulged  by  Parisians  themselves.  It  must  be  because 
"everything  is  different  here.'*  The  frolicsome  party 
in  pink  stockings  who  dropped  her  heel  playfully  on  my 
bashful  friend's  shoulder  in  an  aside  of  the  "quadrille" 
at  the  Moulin  Rouge  was  merely  turning  one  of  the 
tricks  that  pass  as  chic  on  Montmartre.  She  was  of  the 
assured  and  robust  type  that  supports  the  "pyramid" 
in  acrobatic  feats,  and  the  effect  this  had  of  dazing 
my  friend  arose  rather  from  astonishment  at  its  uncon- 
ventionality  than  delight  at  its  skill.  This  much  I 
gathered  when  he  seized  my  arm  and  hurried  me  away 
and  eventually  choked  out,  "Do  you  know,  I  have  to 
keep  saying  to  myself  ^Mullen,  can  this  he  you!'''  I 
think  it  was  quite  as  hard  on  him  at  the  Jardin  de  Paris, 
on  the  Champs-Elysees,  when  he  saw  beautifully  gowned 
Paris  girls  step  out  of  the  crowd  and  go  down  the  chutes 
on  their  shoulders,  screaming  with  laughter,  in  a  whirl 
of  skirts  and  flash  of  lingerie.  In  Paris !  What  Ameri- 
can would  dream  of  trying  the  tricks  at  home  that  he 


PARIS  345 

accomplishes  with  the  ease  of  an  expert  on  and  under 
the  tables  of  the  "Rat  Mort"  or  the  Cafe  Tabarin? 
It  is  a  pretty  problem  as  to  whether  he  has  saved  up  a 
special  surplus  of  buoyancy  for  this  city  alone,  or 
whether  he  has  become  infected  with  the  natural  high 
spirits  of  the  Parisians  and  discovers  too  late  that  he  is 
unable  to  control  them  as  they  do.  The  men  who  want 
"one  more  fling"  before  settling  down  head  straight 
for  Paris.  It  is  probable  if  they  could  not  get  here  that 
they  would  dispense  with  the  fling  altogether. 

Nor  is  the  Rive  Gauche  without  its  votaries  at  mid- 
night. If  the  Latin  Quarter  stands  for  anything  it  is 
for  unconventionality  and  comfortable  enjoyment.  If 
it  is  Thursday  night  the  famous  Bal  Bullier  is  in  full 
blast,  and  visitors  are  gazing  down  from  the  encircling 
boxes  upon  a  jolly  whirl  of  students  in  velvet  coats  and 
black  slouch  hats  cutting  fantastic  capers  in  the  quad- 
rilles with  their  latest  bonnes  and  pretty  models. 
Mimi  and  Musette  are  on  the  arms  of  Rudolphe  and 
Marcel,  "contented  with  little,  happy  with  more." 
Those  so  disposed  need  not  long  remain  uncompanioned 
if  they  take  a  turn  among  the  tables  under  the  trees 
of  the  enclosed  garden,  where  from  any  cozy  corner  a 
soft  voice  at  any  moment  may  ask  you  for  a  cigarette. 
With  so  auspicious  a  start  there  is  no  reason,  if  you 
are  that  sort,  why  you  should  not  be  swearing  eternal 
devotion  before  you  have  finished  one  citron  glace. 

And  no  matter  what  night  it  is  there  is  the  old  "  Boul* 


346     AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

Miche'"  as  always,  the  resort  and  delight  of  artists  and 
students  from  time  immemorial.  Would  you  sup,  there 
are  cafes,  tavernes,  brasseries^  and  restaurants  of  every 
price  and  description.  You  can  have  a  plat  du  jour  of 
venerable  beef  and  a  quantity  of  vin  ordinaire  for  the 
modest  outlay  of  one  franc  fifty;  and  your  payment  is 
received  with  many  a  cheery  *'Merci,  monsieur,"  and 
*'S'il  vous  plait,"  and  hearty  "Bon  soir,"  and  all  the 
rest  of  that  captivating  civility  that  prevails  to  the 
last  corner  of  the  city.  It  is  perhaps  more  agreeable 
to  join  the  few  remaining  Henri  Murger  types  among 
the  crowds  on  the  terraces  of  the  Taverne  du  Pantheon 
or  the  Cafe  Soufflot  and  listen  to  the  vigorous  talk  that 
goes  on  over  the  little  glasses  of  anisette  and  vermouth. 
It  always  seems  to  be  that  "hour  of  the  aperitif"  pro- 
nounced by  Baudelaire,  — 

"L'heure  sainte 
de  I'absinthe." 

When  the  flower-women  and  peddlers  become  too 
numerous  before  the  cafe  and  you  are  weary  with  declin- 
ing nuts  and  nougats  and  ten-olives-for-two-sous,  you 
may  have  a  look  into  Les  Noctambules  or  some  other 
smoke-laden  cabaret.  The  old-timers  will  grin  behind 
their  cigars  at  your  "  stung-again  "  expression  when  the 
polite  gargon  adds  to  the  price  of  your  first  refreshment 
a  franc  or  so  for  the  consommation  of  what  was  adver- 
tised as  a  free  show;  but  shortly  you  get  the  run  of 
things  and  settle  down  to  attend  the  chansonnier,  who 


PARIS  347 

is  the  ox-eyed  gentleman  in  the  long  beard  who  strides 
up  to  the  consumptive  piano  and  pours  forth  an  original 
and  impassioned  rhapsody  to  our  old  friend  "'Parfait 
Amour." 

A  little  of  this  goes  a  long  ways.  When  you  have 
politely  heard  him  through,  you  are  apt  to  think  better 
of  the  boulevards  and  to  start  bowing  your  way  into 
the  street.  How  still  and  deserted  the  familiar  places 
appear  where  by  day  is  so  much  life  and  stir  —  such 
bustling  about  of  stout  market-women  in  aprons,  such 
racing  of  delivery-boys  in  white  blouses  shouldering 
trays  and  boxes,  such  a  concourse  of  the  little  fruit 
wagons  they  push  and  the  two-wheeled  carts  they 
haul!  In  the  little  wineshops  that  dot  the  side  streets 
one  sees  the  portly  proprietors  in  shirt-sleeves  behind 
the  shining  zinc  bars  polishing  glasses  and  chatting 
with  their  patrons,  who  are  workmen  in  jerseys  and  cor- 
duroy trousers  and  cabmen  in  glazed  hats  and  whips  in 
hand.  The  loveliness  of  the  Luxembourg  Gardens  fairly 
shouts  for  appreciation.  One  could  scarcely  linger  too 
long  under  the  chestnuts  and  sycamores,  among  the 
puffing  fountains,  the  bronzes  and  marbles,  the  beds  of 
dahlias  and  geraniums,  the  oleanders  of  the  Terrace 
and  the  great  stone  urns  that  drip  petunias  and  purple 
clematis.  As  you  cross  the  Seine  by  the  old  Pont  Neuf 
and  lean  a  moment  on  its  broad  balustrade,  kindly 
thoughts  go  out  to  the  garrets  that  may  now  be  shel- 
tering those  pathetic  stooping  figures  that  bend  all  day 


348  AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

above  the  long  lines  of  book-shelves  along  the  quays,  and 
never  buy,  and  you  wish  "good  luck"  to  the  good- 
natured  book-sellers  who  never  annoy  them  with  im- 
portunities, but  sit  indulgently  oblivious  on  the  benches 
opposite  and  smoke  their  pipes  and  read  their  papers. 
So  great  a  love  of  books  will  at  least  insure  the  old 
habitues  from  ever  being  included  in  that  dread  toll  of 
two-a-day  that  the  Seine  regularly  pays  into  the 
Morgue. 

It  is  like  getting  home  to  be  back  on  the  boulevards, 
—  gay,  gleaming,  brimming,  and  confused.  The  air 
hums  with  the  incessant  shuffle  of  feet  on  the  asphalt 
sidewalks  and  the  pounding  of  hoofs  on  the  wood- 
paved  streets.  The  eyes  ache  with  trying  to  miss  none 
of  the  faces  that  flash  past  or  any  of  the  good-fellow- 
ship that  abounds.  The  bubbling  current  drifts  one 
along  by  little  kiosks  all  a-flutter  with  magazines  and 
newspapers,  by  advertising  pillars  flaming  in  play-bills 
of  many  colors,  by  crowded  curb  benches,  glowing 
shop  windows  and  table-lined  cafe  fronts.  The  wise 
drop  out  where  the  red  lights  mark  tobacco  bureaux 
and  replenish  their  cigar-supply  from  government  boxes 
with  the  prices  stamped  on  them,  rather  than  pay  double 
for  the  same  article  in  a  restaurant  later  on.  As  you 
proceed  to  your  favorite  cafe  it  is  immensely  diverting 
to  catch  the  glimpses  of  good  cheer  from  those  you  pass. 
It  is  the  same  sort  of  thing  in  each  case  and  yet  some- 
how always  different.    On  the  red  divans  that  extend 


PARIS  349 

around  the  rooms,  with  mirrors  at  their  backs  and  petits 
verves  on  marble-topped  tables  before  them,  one  beholds 
formidable  arrays  of  bons  vivants,  all  taking  their  ease 
with  as  hearty  a  will  as  the  very  kings  of  Yvetot.  Mil- 
itary men  with  red  noses  and  white  imperials,  politicians 
with  pervasive  smiles,  litterati  bearded  like  the  As- 
syrian kings  and  wearing  rosettes  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor,  fat  merchants  in  fat  diamonds,  and  pot-hatted 
elegants  who  advertise  smart  tailors  with  as  much  ex- 
uberant grace  as  Roland  himself.  Happily  for  Paris, 
champagne  is  never  out  of  season,  and  popping  corks 
are  held  by  many  to  make  sweeter  music  than  some  of 
the  orchestras  in  restaurant  corners.  The  tide  of  life 
appears  at  flood.  La  Belle  Ninette,  of  the  Folies,  tres 
Jetee  et  tres  admiree,  fares  daintily  on  out-of-season 
delicacies,  thanks  to  the  enduring  ardor  of  the  dis- 
tingue Marquis  opposite,  and  drops  candied  fruits  with 
the  prettiest  air  imaginable  into  the  nervous  mouth  of 
her  favorite  poodle,  who  is  himself  rejoicing  in  a  new 
silver  collar  set  with  garnets.  La  seduisante  Gabrielle, 
at  an  adjoining  table,  having  once  been  a  blanchisseuse 
herself,  appropriately  excels  in  a  toilette  of  cloudlike 
gossamer,  and  is  quite  the  adored  of  the  rheumatic 
old  party  beside  her,  who  has  probably  been  doting  on 
the  ballet  for  two  generations.  The  talk  is  largely  of  la 
belle  this  and  la  belle  that,  of  the  latest  display  of  extrav- 
agance, the  most  recent  spectacle,  the  most  promising 
plays  for  the  fall,  or  the  drollest  freaks  of  the  new  fash- 


350     AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

ions.  One  sees  foreign  faces  from  all  quarters  of  the  earth, 
as  though  it  were  some  kind  of  international  congress, 
with  both  hemispheres  fully  represented.  Long  accus- 
tomed to  seeing  the  world  without  leaving  home,  no- 
thing surprises  Paris.  A  Chinese  admiral,  a  Bedouin 
sheik,  a  Spitzbergen  Eskimo,  a  lotus-lover  of  Tahiti,  a 
Russian  Grand  Duke,  or  a  millionaire  hemp-grower  of 
Yucatan  pass  practically  unremarked.  It  would  be  a 
matter  of  no  comment  if  "the  Owl  and  the  Pussy  Cat 
went  to  sea  in  a  beautiful  pea-green  boat."  U amour  is 
the  point  of  common  contact,  and  even  so  one  has  little 
chance  against  a  rich  old  roue  in  the  eyes  of  a  premiere 
danseuse  or  a  far-visioned  chanteuse  of  the  Marigny. 
Business  flourishes  in  the  cafes.  The  harried  waiters  are 
kept  bowing  right  and  left  and  hurry  off  crying  "tout 
de  suite."  Each  open  door  sends  out  its  vision  of 
fluttering  hands  and  shrugging  shoulders  and  one  hears 
an  incessant  rapid  fire  of  "Bien!"  "Dis  done!"  "Ecou- 
tez!"  "Mais  non!"  " Precisement ! "  "Allons!"  "Oh, 
la  la ! "  —  and  so  on  and  on.  At  Maxim's  and  the  Olym- 
pia  you  would  think  there  was  a  riot.  Ice  pails  are  as 
numerous  as  pulse-beats. 

When  you  reach  your  cafe  at  last,  on  the  corner  by  the 
Opera  House,  perhaps,  the  ponderous  maitre  d' hotel 
assigns  you  a  gargon,  whose  name  is  doubtless  Frangois, 
Gustave,  or  Adolphe,  and  who  is  very  businesslike  in 
short  jacket  and  white  apron.  To  him  goes  your  order 
for  a  filet  de  boeuf,  or  perhaps  a  fricandeau,  or,  better 


PARIS  351 

still,  a  sole  with  shrimp  sauce;  and  as  you  await  its 
preparation  you  think  with  satisfaction  of  the  self- 
appreciative  observation  of  Brillat-Savarin,  "One  eats 
everywhere;  one  dines  only  in  Paris." 

The  life  you  then  see  about  you  is  the  usual  thing  here; 
to  a  stranger,  novel  and  amusing;  to  a  Parisian,  alto- 
gether important  and  absorbing  —  an  ':  indispensable 
part  of  his  existence.  The  setting  is  of  soft  carpets, 
palms,  red  velvet  divans,  chandeliers,  and  a  crush  of 
small,  marble-topped  tables.  The  place  is  crowded  to 
the  point  of  discomfort.  A  thin  veil  of  smoke  hangs  over 
all.  There  are  people  in  all  kinds  of  street  clothes  and 
evening  dress,  ladies  in  opera  cloaks  and  gentlemen  in 
immaculate  white  waistcoats.  There  are  ordinary  indi- 
viduals and  fantastic  "types";  ruddy,  portly  bourgeois 
who  shout  "mon  vieux"  at  each  other  and  make  a  pro- 
digious racket  generally;  and  nervous  old  beaux  in  tou- 
pees who  fancy  themselves  in  drafts.  Occupations  vary. 
Ladies  are  dining  on  champagne  and  truffles;  the  man 
at  your  elbow  is  writing  a  letter;  another  is  looking 
through  the  illustrated  papers;  another  has  called  for 
ink  and  paper  and  is  casting  up  the  day's  expenditures; 
rubbers  of  dominoes  and  ecarte  are  being  played  out; 
there  is  a  continual  running  to  the  telephone-booths  and 
you  hear  the  muffled  calls  of  "Alio ! "  —  and  all  the  time 
an  orchestra  is  holding  forth  in  the  corner.  The  clatter 
of  chairs  and  dishes  and  the  confused  rattle  of  conversa- 
tion is  amazing.  Wit  whets  on  wit.  Everybody  has  an 


352    AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

opinion  and  is  anxious  to  back  it.  Politicians  bang  their 
fists  on  the  tables  and  address  one  another  as  '*citoyen." 
Philosophers  have  it  out,  Cartesian  against  Hegelian. 
Poets  quote  from  their  latest  lyrics  and  are  tremendously 
applauded.  Novelists  dispose  of  rival  books  with  a 
scornful  shrug  and  a  withering  mot.  And  the  playwright, 
by  universal  concession,  is  supreme  cock  of  the  walk. 

Presently  you  move  a  little  out  of  all  this  and  have  a 
seat  near  the  outer  edge  of  the  terrace,  and  begin  to 
accumulate  a  pile  of  cups  and  saucers  each  with  the  price 
of  the  order  burned  in  the  bottom.  So  far  as  out  of  doors 
goes,  you'are  now  the  audience  and  the  passing  crowd  the 
show.  The  number  has  dwindled,  but  in  characteristics 
it  remains  the  same  —  sociable,  good-humored,  easy  in 
manner,  and  quick  in  intelligence.  It  will  be  seen  to 
differ  from  the  night  throngs  of  other  cities  not  only  in 
variety  and  exuberance,  but  in  dramatic  qualities  as 
well.  Camelots  rush  up  to  you  crying  the  latest  editions 
of  the  evening  papers,  and  suddenly,  with  furtive 
glances  over  their  shoulders,  thrust  some  questionable 
commodity  under  your  nose  and  protest  it  is  a  bargain. 
Jolly  parties  sweep  along,  arm  in  arm,  in  lines  that  cross 
the  sidewalk  from  house  to  curb.  Lady  visitors,  with 
eyes  full  of  excited  delight,  pause  for  a  wistful  glance 
down  Rue  de  la  Paix  where  the  establishments  of  famed 
milliners  and  modistes  stand  in  gloom,  little  dreaming 
that  they  may  be  touching  elbows  this  minute  with  the 
very  chefs  des  jupes,  corsageresy  and  garnisseuses  that 


PARIS  353 

they  are  to  visit  in  the  morning.  Chic  grisettes  trip 
smilingly  by,  who  have  dined  frugally  at  Duval's  on 
chocolate  and  bread,  to  have  another  rose  to  their  cor- 
sages. There  are  blase  clubmen  from  the  exclusive 
cercles  of  Place  de  la  Concorde  and  the  Champs-Ely- 
sees,  and  supercilious  representatives  of  the  American 
colony  of  the  Boulevard  Haussmann.  Here  comes 
D'Artagnan  himself,  capable  and  alert,  arm  in  arm  with 
blustering  Porthos.  Ragged  voyous  with  shifty  looks  run 
to  open  the  carriage  doors.  From  time  to  time  there 
saunters  by  in  cap  and  cape  that  model  policeman,  the 
affable  and  accommodating  sergent  de  ville,  and  if  you 
look  around  for  a  camelot  then,  you  will  find  him  attend- 
ing very  strictly  to  business.  And  so  the  fascinating 
procession  troops  merrily  by :  roaring  students  from  the 
Boul'  Miche',  black-eyed  soldiers  in  shakos  and  baggy 
red  trousers,  members  of  the  Institute,  pretty  working- 
girls  who  handle  their  skirts  with  the  captivating  grace 
of  comediennes,  the  shapely  dress-models  they  nickname 
"quails,"  conceited  figurantes  from  the  cafes-concerts, 
famous  models,  cocottes,  —  frail  daughters  of  Lutetia,  — 
with  complexions  like  Italian  sunsets,  impudent  gamins 
chattering  in  unintelligible  argot,  dilettanti,  "poseurs,  and 
the  usual  concomitants  of  beggars  and  thieves.  What 
a  jumble  of  happiness  and  misery!  What  an  amazing 
spectacle,  with  the  shimmer  of  silks  and  the  glint  of  pearl 
ranged  beside  the  mendicant  in  his  rags! 

What  a  wealth  of  material,  too,  for  the  capable!  One 


354     AROUND  THE  CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

sees  how  Balzac  found  the  best  types  of  his  "Human 
Comedy"  on  the  boulevards;  why  Victor  Hugo  tramped 
them  day  and  night  and  read  shop  signs  by  the  hour  in 
search  for  characters  and  the  names  to  fit  them;  where 
Zola  got  the  misery  that  he  put  between  covers;  where 
Moliere  secured  impressions  that  he  transplanted  so 
effectually  to  the  stage.  How  Dumas  must  have  known 
these  streets !  And  Flaubert  and  De  Maupassant !  Nor 
are  they  exhausted  yet ;  or  ever  will  be.  Where  the  en- 
tire gamut  of  the  emotions  is  so  incessantly  run  as  here, 
vital,  human  material  can  never  be  lacking. 

As  one  o'clock  wears  round,  it  is  easy  to  distinguish 
a  change  in  the  appearance  of  the  crowd. 

"  The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies, 
The  captains  and  the  kings  depart." 

Something  of  that  wan  and  forlorn  look  is  beginning  to 

appear  that  makes  even  these  buildings  themselves  seem 

dejected  and  remorseful,  by  the  time  the  street  cleaners 

advance  to  flood  the  boulevards  and  the  sky  beyond 

Pere-Lachaise  is  paling  to  dawn.  The  heart  says,  "Let's 

keep  it  up";  the  body  says,  "To  bed."  And  now,  too, 

the  crasser  comedies  of  the  fag  end  of  the  night  receive 

their  premieres.  Amaryllis  has  lost  her  Colin  and  laments 

loudly  with  Florian:  — 

"C'est  mon  ami, 
Rendez-le  moi; 
J'ai  son  amour, 
II  a  ma  foi." 


PARIS  355 

Mile.  Fifi  demands  her  carriage  and  bundles  out  into  it, 
with  the  red-faced  Baron  hurrying  after,  carrying  her 
amazing  hat;  and  off  they  go  toward  the  Champs- 
Ely  sees.  A  stag  party  of  revelers  hails  a  victoria  and 
sinks  limply  onto  its  cushions;  and  they,  too,  head  for 
the  Champs-Elysees  with  one  hanging  onto  the  cocher 
and  reciting  dramatically:  — 

"  Au  clair  de  la  lune, 
Mon  ami  Pierrot." 

Everyone  smiles,  for  they  know  whither,  they  are  bound. 
For  Pre  Catelon,  of  course,  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne, 
where  they  will  chase  the  ducks  and  chickens  around 
the  little  farmyard  and  make  speeches  to  the  mild-eyed 
cows  and  recover  themselves  gradually  on  mugs  of  cold 
milk. 

Clearly,  it  is  time  to  depart.  One  does  not  want  the 
lees  of  this  sparkling  cup.  A  man  is  a  fool  to  abuse  his 
pleasures  —  though  this  may  sound  naive  at  one 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  Go,  while  everything  is  still 
charming  and  delightful.  The  seasoned  boulevardier 
can  do  it,  for  he  has  a  viewpoint  that  is  all  his  own ;  it  is 
by  no  means  that  of  France,  nor  yet  that  of  Paris  by 
day,  but  of  Paris  by  night  —  his  Paris.  It  is  opportun- 
ism applied  to  society.  Not  the  mad,  reckless  apres- 
moi-le-deluge  folly  rout  of  the  late  Louises,  but  rather  a 
conception  of  the  importance  of  few  things  and  the  in- 
consequence of  many.  He  sings  with  Villon:  "Where 
are  the  snows  of  yester-year.'^ "  He  searches  the  classics, 


356    AROUND  THE   CLOCK  IN  EUROPE 

and  has  "Carpe  Diem"  framed.  He  skims  Holy  Writ 
and  puts  his  finger  on  "Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the 
evil  thereof."  "Life  is  poetry,"  quoth  he,  "in  spite  of  a 
limping  line  here  and  there !  Why  fuss  over  Waterloo,  or 
the  Place  de  Greve,  or  the  guillotine,  or  the  tumbrils  that 
rattled  up  the  Rue  Roy  ale?  The  present  alone  is  ours; 
enjoy  it  to  the  uttermost!  Life  is  beautiful  and  of  the 
moment.  Lights  are  sparkling.  Fountains  are  splashing. 
The  night  is  delicious  with  fragrance  and  enchanting 
with  music  and  laughter.  Join  me!  "  he  cries.  "I  raise 
my  glass :  To  the  lilies  of  France  and  the  Bright  Eyes  of 
the  Daughters  of  Paris  .^" 


THE   END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .    A 


